My Reason
by xelectrogirlx
Summary: 'Tell me about Sherlock,' his therapist says gently. 'What do you want me to say' A post-Reichenbach fic. May be triggering for some readers. Angst/romance/hurt/comfort and more. Johnlock.
1. The Empty Flat

**MY REASON**

**a post-Reichenbach Sherlock Fanfiction**

_**by xelectrogirlx**_

_I let it fall, my heart_

_And as it fell, you rose to claim it_

_It was dark and I was over_

_Until you kissed my lips and you saved me_

_My hands, they're strong_

_But my knees were far too weak_

_To stand in your arms_

_Without falling to your feet_

_But there's a side to you, that I never knew, never knew_

_All the things, you'd say, they were never true, never true_

_And the games you play, you would always win, always win_

_But I set fire to the rain_

_Watched it pour as I touched your face_

_Let it burn while I cry_

'_Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name_

_When laying with you_

_I could stay there, close my eyes_

_Feel you here, forever_

_You and me together, nothing is better_

'_Cause there's a side to you, that I never knew, never knew_

_All the things, you'd say, they were never true, never true_

_And the games you play, you would always win, always win_

_I set fire to the rain_

_And I threw us into the flames_

_Where I felt somethin' die, 'cause I knew that_

_That was the last time, the last time_

_Sometimes I wake up by the door_

_Now that you've gone, must be waiting for you_

_Even now when it's already over_

_I can't help myself from looking for you_

_Adele, 'Set Fire to the Rain'_

**Chapter One**

_**The Empty Flat**_

'Tell me about Sherlock,' his therapist says gently. John stares at her, his foot beating an unconscious rhythm on the worn floorboards.

'What do you want me to say?' he manages finally, his words flat as though they have been steam-rollered before exiting his mouth. She shrugs, her dark eyes fixed on his face, her notepad resting delicately on her lap.

'Whatever you want to say. What do you think of when you think of him?'

_Blood. Genius. Nightmares. Falling. Blood. Eyes. Pavement. Coat. Blood. Boredom. Drugs. Blood._ He mirrors her shrug and sinks deeper into his chair, his eyes now resting on the grainy wood of the floor.

'John. You have to talk about this sometime,' she presses him, her voice soft and reasonable. 'It's been two years.'

John stands up without a word and leaves, manoeuvering himself with difficulty out of the door and down the stairs. His limp has returned and it's more aggressive than ever. He feels the phantom pain in his leg every minute of the day but it is always worse in the mornings and last thing at night.

Outside the day is wintry and cold. He pulls his shabby leather jacket tighter around his body and sets off for the tube station, his cane tapping on the icy pavement. What would his regiment say if they could see him now? He left them injured and war-torn, yes, but not broken. Not this hollowed-out husk with haunted eyes and premature lines on his face.

The tube is crowded and noisy. Teenagers bleat at each other and yell into their mobile phones which seem to get tinier every month. Business men rustle papers and glance around importantly. Elderly ladies eye the teenagers and tut with disapproval every time a crude sentiment or swear word is uttered. Tinny, half-heard music from ipods, iphones and MP3 players combines to the overall din.

John stands, one hand holding tight to the pole, the other to his cane, silent. Scattered throughout the carriage he can spot people who are similarly tormented. There's a man two seats down who sits slumped in his spot, head sunk in his hands. A woman who stares vacantly at the posters just above the people sitting opposite, her eyes filled with tears. They are the walking wounded and every step hurts.

John limps off at his stop and makes his way back to the flat. Not Baker Street. It took him six months to realise that he couldn't live there without Sherlock. Mrs Hudson was sorry to see him go, but understood. In fact, she got him a good deal at the place he is currently in. The benefits of having property-owning friends. His new flat is small, quiet and completely devoid of any personality. In other words; perfect.

However if he thought moving would get rid of his ghost he was sorely mistaken. As it turns out it is not 221B which is haunted. It is him. The shadow of Sherlock clings to him like a limpet. The detective is there when he wakes up and stalks him throughout the day. He cannot even escape him in sleep.

It's a catch-22. If he attempts to rest without the aid of sleeping pills he lies awake all night glimpsing the slender detective in every dark corner of his room. If he takes the pills his rest is disturbed all night long by horrific nightmares which leave him shaking and screaming well into the dawn.

He hasn't been to the surgery in two years. Sarah, out of the goodness of her heart, still holds his position for him although they both know he will never be going back. He tried once, a thwarted attempt at normalcy a week after Sherlock's funeral. He suffered a breakdown of sorts after a patient with similar inky hair and a slender build entered his office. The day after that incident he stopped going to work and started seeing his therapist.

Deep in his heart he is convinced that this isn't normal. The concerned stares of his friends, family and psychiatrist all contribute to this theory. There is no way he should still be grieving like this two years after Sherlock's fall. The memory of Sherlock should be making him sad, yes, but there should be acceptance mixed in with the grief. He should be moving on with his life and he definitely should be able to speak the detective's name aloud without wanting to cry or hit something.

Instead he keeps himself confined to his room unless it is Tuesday, like today, and he has an appointment with Ella. The outside world holds too many reminders for him. Strangers truly are a danger for him. At the merest hint of anyone resembling Sherlock - be it dark curly hair, a tall-slender build or pale skin - all reason abandons him. He does not want a repeat of the incident in the surgery. Instead he stays at home and stares at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. Ella has encouraged him to start writing once again and yet all he can do is read over the last sentence he ever wrote on his blog.

_Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. I will never stop believing in him. _

That was two years ago, near enough. He didn't write RIP because he imagines that for Sherlock there would be nothing worse than resting in peace. LIC would probably be closer to appropriate. Live in Chaos. In his calmer days he likes to picture the dark-haired detective in some parallel universe where a fiendishly clever crime is committed everyday of the week. And then he becomes angry because if such a place existed why would Sherlock ever wish to come back to boring, average John Watson, a middle-aged ex-army medic with a limp?

He gets angry because somewhere deep inside he still childishly hopes that Sherlock's suicide was all just a dreadful joke and that one day he will wake up to hear the sound of gunshots and a shouted _'BORED!'_ reverberating through the flat.

The sky is darkening as he lets himself in through the front-door and makes the way to his flat. Ground-floor of course. He cannot manage the stairs with his leg in the state it is. He flicks on lights automatically to banish the shadows from the corners of the rooms. Not that it will help. He will still see Sherlock at least five times before he lies down for the night.

XXXXXXXXXX

The next day his phone rings, shattering the sombre silence of the apartment. Groaning he staggers to his feet and snatches the device up, staring down blearily at the display.

'Hello?'

'John! How you doing?' Lestrade's eerily cheery voice echoes through the speakers. John sighs and sinks back down into his chair.

'Good,' he lies glibly. 'How are you?'

'Oh, can't complain,' the Inspector says and starts off talking about his day and all the absurd cases he's been handed. John lets him talk. He still hasn't forgiven Lestrade completely for the role he played in Sherlock's undoing. How he could even _think_ that... but no. Going down that route would not be healthy for his state of mind. Greg has been pathetically contrite ever since the day of the Fall and at some point John has to stop blaming him for what was essentially Sherlock's fault.

Sherlock's fault. The anger courses through him once more, hot and blinding. He _jumped_. He fucking well _threw_ himself off that building without even a thought for how it would affect John. Poor, foolish, slavish John Watson who came when called and was stood, rooted to the spot, to watch the culmination to Moriarty and Sherlock's dance. A prime spot, as it were. How he wished he hadn't been there. Quite apart from being saved the nightmares of watching Sherlock plummet to the unforgiving pavement over and over again, it would have made it a lot easier for him to believe that the detective would someday come back to him. It's hard to fool yourself in somebody's miraculous return when you've seen that somebody's body twisted on the pavement, a spreading pool of dark blood running between the cracks in the stone.

With a start he comes back to himself as he realises Lestrade has asked him a question.

'Sorry, what?'

'I said did you fancy the pub tonight? There's a great place just a few streets away from where you're at. I was thinking of going out with a couple of mates this evening.'

John's eyes flicker shut. 'I don't know...' he begins. Lestrade's voice softens.

'It'll be good for you, John. You hardly ever leave that flat.' A pause as if the Inspector is uncertain about whether he should say what is on his mind. 'He's not coming back, you know. It's been two years.'

'I _know_ how long it's been!' John snaps and flings the phone at the wall. He watches as the flimsy device shatters and the plastic shards litter the floor. He'll have to replace that now. Still, money isn't an issue, thanks to Mycroft.

The first time he steeled himself to check his balance, about two days after Sherlock's funeral, he thought there had been some kind of mistake. Instead of the usual _Insufficient Funds_ message or a somehow even more depressing _£569 overdrawn_ there was a quite unexpected figure flashing. _£12,002.34._

He'd blinked at the screen, thinking he'd missed the little _D_ after the figure. But no. He was somehow, inexplicably, twelve thousand pounds in credit. He'd checked his statement online that very day, certain there had been an error. Instead he'd found that twelve thousand had been transferred by one Mycroft Holmes.

_Blood money_.

His hatred of Sherlock's elder brother does not stop him from taking the money. And he does hate Mycroft. Passionately. As much as Lestrade is to blame for Sherlock's death, Mycroft's responsibility is easily two-fold.

John's hands clench into fists. He sold out his own little brother to Moriarty. He _gave_ him all the ammunition he needed to destroy Sherlock utterly. And what for? _What for?_ Mycroft was unable to give him an answer when he'd asked. And so he'd shut the door in his face, much like Sherlock had done with Anderson many years ago. He'd ignored all Mycroft's calls. Nevertheless the money still trickles into his account.

He has not been in contact with Mycroft since. If he's honest he thinks if he saw that smug face with the little half smile even one more time he would punch Mycroft's face in and not stop until the other man was bleeding on the ground in front of him. He _deserved_ to bleed for what he'd done to Sherlock.

The hands of the clock on the wall approach two o'clock in the afternoon. Where has his day gone? How much time has he spent here in his chair just wishing and dreaming?

'It's laziness, John, that's all it is. You should be outside _doing_ something. How many fascinating cases have passed you by while you've been in here moping?'

With a start John jolts upright. Sherlock eyes him from across the room, lounging against the mantelpiece, dark hair falling into his eyes.

'You're not real,' John croaks, his eyes watering. Sherlock quirks an enigmatical eyebrow at him and says nothing. John sits back in his chair.

'If I get up to touch you, you'll dissolve. A figment of my imagination, that's all you are.'

'If you're so sure, why don't you try?' the ghost drawls arrogantly, that well-remembered stare lasering into his face.

'Fine,' John snaps, getting up from his chair, irritated out of his usual stupor. 'I will and then we'll see who's right.' He stalks over to where the phantom Sherlock stands, surveying him with that sardonic stare. For a moment, just a moment, he pauses. He knows that as soon as he reaches out to touch the detective he will vanish and he will be alone again, bereft, incomplete. Then, summoning his courage, he sweeps his arm at where Sherlock's shoulder is. Just in case. Just in case.

Empty air. That's all the resistance his swipe meets. The figure of Sherlock wavers and then falls apart like an image glimpsed briefly in the shimmering heat haze of a summer sun. John kicks at the base of the fireplace and drops to his knees.

'I won! You see, Sherlock! I was right after all! You're dead!' His shouting turns to sobbing and he shakes on the floor in front of the chair, clutching at nothing. 'Dead!' The empty room mocks him with its silence.

XXXXXXXXXX

'How are you getting along? Progress is made, I trust?'

'I'm getting there. His network is proving trickier than I imagined.'

'Where are you at the moment?'

'Iran. But I have sources which lead me to believe Moran has fled to Canada.'

'He is the last, am I right?'

'Yes.'

'Good.'

'Why? What's wrong? Have you been keeping an eye on John as I requested?'

'Of course but I'm not sure an eye is going to be much use for much longer.'

'And what is that supposed to mean?'

'Just... come home soon.'

'I will come home as soon as all Moriarty's network are no longer a threat to John.'

'If you leave it too much longer Doctor Watson will become a threat to himself and have no need of the network's interference.'

'Goodbye, Mycroft.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'Well, it's been two and a half years, Sherlock. And I still think about you every single day. If you ever needed proof that you meant something to someone then I'm it. Come on, take a picture. This is what grief looks like.'

The susurration of the trees and the slight whispering of the wind is all he can hear. There is no answering response from the grave. He rests a hand on the black marble and takes in a deep breath.

'I bought you a bouquet.' He takes the flowers out and lays them on the sun-warmed earth. 'The lady at the shop explained all the meanings to me. I chose those which are appropriate.' Yellow tulips, larkspur, freesias, white carnations and some forget-me-nots. John takes a few steps back and cocks his head at the grave.

'Who would have thought I'd miss you this much after this much time? It's been two and a half years, Sherlock. _Two and a half years_.' He pauses and rubs his eyes, where the tell-tale tears have started gathering. Slowly he kneels down and sits on the grass in front of the headstone. 'I never stopped believing in you, Sherlock. I never stopped. Just please, one more miracle, don't be dead.'

There is no point in voicing this plea. He knows it. Dead men cannot answer the living. And there, right there, is his solution.

_Dead men cannot answer the living._

'I could join you, Sherlock,' John murmurs, reaching out once more to the dark stone which remains cool to the touch despite the late summer sun. 'I could be with you. We'd be together again.'

Again, no answer. But he knows what he must do.

That night he sits alone in his empty, silent flat and places the muzzle of the gun in his mouth. The metal feels cool and alien against his tongue, he can taste the metallic odour of the steel. All he needs to do is squeeze the trigger and all his horrors and nightmares will end. His finger tightens.

His phone blares out its symphony from across the room. John freezes in place and then lets the gun drop from nerveless fingers. It's Harry. Reluctantly he answers the call.

'Hey little brother. How are you?'

The usual question. How would she like the honest answer? _Oh, not bad. Just about to kill myself so I can join Sherlock in the afterlife. How are you?_ Maybe a little not good. Instead he falls back on the usual lie.

'Good.'

'Liar. You're not over him, are you?'

John sighs. 'No. I'm not. And I know that makes me weird, I know I should be over him by now...'

'Not neccessarily,' Harry interrupts. 'You felt more for him than just friendship.' It is a statement, not a question. John bristles.

'Not you as well, Harry. For the last time...'

'I know, you're not gay. But think about it. Who else grieves like this for a friend and flatmate?'

'He was important to me,' is all the response John can come up with.

'Anyway, I was ringing to say I'm going to be in London next Tuesday. I thought we could meet up for a drink after your session with Ella.'

'Possibly,' John responds, not willing to commit himself fully.

'Aww, go on. It seems like ages since I've seen my little brother. And I won't be drinking in case that's what you're worried about.'

'I've had a few other things on my mind, Harry. Your drinking is not at the top of my list of concerns right now.'

There is silence for a second and John thinks absently that before Sherlock's death this is exactly the sort of thing which would make Harry slam the phone down. They have always had a knack of rubbing each other up the wrong way, especially when they were children. Instead there is a soft exhalation of breath and Harry speaks again.

'I suppose so, John. Please think about it.' There is another pause. 'I'm worried about you.'

John stares at the gun lying prone on the floor near his feet and sighs deeply. 'You don't need to be. I'm fine. Text me with the details, yeah?'

'Perfect,' Harry responds, her tone brighter and more cheerful. 'And don't worry, the drinks are on me.'

'Bye Harry,' John says and hangs up. He sits motionless in his chair for a few more minutes, then carefully picks up the gun and places it back in his drawer. Not now. Not yet. He will give life one more chance.

That night he lies awake, as usual, and gazes at the figure of Sherlock who is sitting on the edge of his bed.

'Why are you doing this to me?' John whispers hoarsely, pressing the side of his face into the pillow.

'Doing what? Really, John, you do have to learn to be more clear and concise with your statements.'

'Why are you driving me mad?'

'_I'm_ not, John. This is all you, believe me. It's your mind conjuring me up and making me talk. Which is possibly why I appear to be less intelligent and erudite than usual.'

'Well then, it's good to know my mind still thinks you're an insufferable wanker.'

The phantom Sherlock shrugs. 'Perhaps, but you love me anyway.'

_Wait, what_? John's mouth opens but before he can think of a reply the ghost raises a dark eyebrow, that well-remembered smirk crosses his lips and then he vanishes. John fumbles himself upright to a sitting position and swipes a hand across his sweaty brow. _What the hell was that_?

XXXXXXXXXX

The next Tuesday John manages a full session with Ella, although he spends much of the time silent, and limps down the street to the pub where he's meeting Harry. The inside is noisy and crowded and John has to shoulder through several knots of people to find his way to the bar.

Once there he orders a pint of Fosters and gazes around, attempting to spot his sister and cursing the fact that he's short; not for the first time.

'John! Over here!'

He sees her at a table in the corner with what looks like a glass of coke in front of her. _Probably got a double shot of vodka in it_ he thinks uncharitably as he begins to navigate his way over.

Harry stands up and edges her way out from behind the table as he approaches. She waits until he has put his pint down and then hugs him cautiously. Physical contact has never been a big thing with them.

'It's good to see you, Johnny,' she says, smiling at him. He smiles back, a little surprised to hear his childhood nickname.

'You too,' he replies, astonished to find that it's the truth. He gestures to her drink as they sit down. 'Coke?'

She rolls her eyes. 'Yes, a virgin Coca-Cola. No added ingredients.'

'I didn't think there were,' he lies smoothly. 'How are you doing? How's the new girlfriend?'

In one of her emails to him, which have been getting more regular since Sherlock's... since the Fall... Harry had gushed about a new employee in her office. Short, curvy and with killer legs he thinks had been the phrase. 'What was her name? Lisa?'

'Alice,' Harry replies a little shyly. 'And she's not my girlfriend. We've just had lunch together a few times, you know. Casual.'

'For now,' he quips and she grins, taking a sip of her drink.

'I don't want to go too fast,' she confesses. 'That was partly why things went wrong with Clara, you know.'

'I thought you broke up with her?' John says, confused. Harry frowns.

'It's complicated, and much too long a story to bore you with now. How did your session go?'

'Quietly,' John replies absently.

'You really do have to start making an effort to communicate with her,' Harry says reprovingly. 'She can't help you move on if you refuse to tell her what you're thinking.'

'Do we have to talk about this?' John snaps, taking a deep draught of his pint.

'No. Sorry.' She drums her fingers on the table as she evidently casts about for a less tense subject. 'Have you seen that nice DI recently? Or that girl who works in the morgue? Molly, is it?'

'Yes, and sort of. I mean, I've seen Lestrade a couple of times recently. Molly, not so much. I think she's avoiding me, which is understandable. I haven't exactly been the easiest person to be around lately.'

'Don't lose contact with them, John,' she warns, her eyes steady upon his. 'They've been good for you.'

'Not as good as him,' John murmurs, his eyes fixed on the bubbles rising steadily to the surface of his pint. He hears Harry sigh but she doesn't speak for awhile.

'He wouldn't want you to be like this,' she says eventually. John glares at her.

'You hardly knew him. How do you know what he would and wouldn't like?'

She shrugs. 'He was your best friend. Even though I gathered from what you told me that he could be... tricky... I'm sure he wouldn't want you torturing yourself.'

'I'm not,' John mutters obstinately.

'Johnny, I haven't seen you this upset ever before. Not even when Jenny Groves dumped you in sixth form.'

'She didn't dump me,' John replies heatedly. 'It was a mutual split.'

'Is that why you spent three days crying into your pillow when you thought Mum and I couldn't hear you?' Harry says, smirking. 'Come on, John.'

John flushes a deep crimson. 'Can we please stop talking about how pathetic my love life was back when I was seventeen?'

For the next half hour they stick to "safe" subjects, such as the weather and their mother's annual Christmas party.

'She's started planning it already!' Harry says exasperatedly. 'I can't believe it! It's August! Who on earth is thinking about Christmas?'

'Supermarkets,' John says glumly. 'I swear I heard "Jingle Bells" in Tesco's the other day.' Harry groans and downs the remainder of her coke.

'Fancy another drink?' she asks, gesturing to John's empty pint glass.

'No, I should be getting on,' John says, feeling that he has done enough acting like a fully-fuctioning adult for one day. As he is getting up, Harry reaches over the table and clasps one of his hands.

'Don't be a stranger John, okay? This was nice. We should do it again sometime.'

'Yeah,' John agrees distractedly, shrugging into his jacket. 'See you soon, Harry.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Back in the reassuring silence of his flat, John boots up his laptop and automatically logs onto his blog. He doesn't really know why he still does this. After all, he hasn't added anything new since that last post about two and a half years ago. But sometimes people leave comments and even though they usually end up angering and upsetting him, he cannot bear to leave them unread. It is comforting to know that people still think about Sherlock, even after over two years have passed.

**USER-ATARI4 posted at 13:16 **_just read this blog after a friend recommended it to me. dont take this the wrong way but dont you think he was playing you all along? nobody could figure out all that stuff without being involved somehow. _

**USER-MobillDray19 posted at 16:06 **_Wow, way to be insensitive Atari4. I can't help agreeing but don't forget that John lost his best friend. I'm sorry for his loss._

**USER-DreamingForever posted at 16:53 **_i agree with u MobillDray19. cnt help tinking tht Sherlock Holmes was 2 good 2 b true bt that dsnt lessen the tragedy of his death._

**USER-Brant10 posted at 17:35 **_Sherlock Holmes was a fake, they've got tonnes of evidence which says so. What kind of a person pays an actor to be his nemesis? Move on John, you're better without him._

**USER-ShoneNanashi posted at 18:14 **_You guys should be ashamed of yourselves. Surely nobody would know the truth of the matter better than John Watson? I for one have always been incredibly suspicious of the rubbish printed in the papers both before and after his death. You can't always believe everything you read. Forgive me if I take John Watson's word over those of some faceless hack. John – don't forget there are people out there who believe in Sherlock Holmes, just like you. _

John rereads the last comment perhaps twenty times, aware that his eyes are growing dangerously wet. He brushes the tears away and flips his laptop shut, sighing deeply. He should really have got used to reading poisonous messages about Sherlock by now but every so often an offer of support comes from the anonymous void which restores his faith slightly. There _are_ people out there who don't believe the vile lies printed by Kitty Riley and her colleagues. That is worth holding onto. If he can help clear Sherlock's name even a little, he will do as much as he can.

XXXXXXXXXX

January has the whole of the United Kingdom in its grip. It has snowed a few times, in fits and starts, but mostly remains merely miserable with constant rain and freezing temperatures. John Watson sits in his living room, swathed in one of his thickest jumpers, watching an Agatha Christie murder mystery on the television.

Unfortunately it happens to be one he's seen before, with Sherlock no less, but that's okay because he's not paying attention. His mind is drifting absently over the events which preceded Sherlock's Fall and a worried frown is crinkling his brow. Although he can remember exactly what happened, he cannot bring to mind a clear picture of the detective. He remembers the dark, curly hair and the slender build but anything resembling concrete details such as the exact size of his nose or the way his mouth curves in a smile is escaping him. God help him, he cannot even recall the exact shade of Sherlock's eyes. Blue? Or grey? Yet he could swear that sometimes they seemed green.

He groans aloud, but is seemingly unaware that he has done so. 'I don't remember,' he murmurs to himself and then his eyes snap open, gazing blankly at the television screen. 'I actually don't remember.' He leaps to his feet, moving faster than he has in a long time, his eyes scan the empty room wildly. 'Come out! Come on, Sherlock! I need to see you! I need to remember!' The muscles in his neck cord as he flicks his head from side to side, attempting to see all the room at once. '_Please_, Sherlock! _Please_, I need this.' His voice is quieter now, almost hushed. Still there is nothing. The room remains resolutely empty, there is no detective-shaped shadow in the corner. John spins around on the balls of his feet before laughing a little shrilly. For years he has considered these spectral visitations from the detective as a torment and now he actually _wants_ Sherlock to appear and the git is nowhere to be seen.

'Bloody typical,' John mutters, finally coming to standstill. 'That's it. I've had enough.' He casts one last look around the room before he grabs his jacket and cane and limps out of the door.

The night is windy and bitterly cold. John makes his way through the eerily deserted streets of London, towards the Thames. He imagines most sensible people are closeted away indoors, not out walking. The freezing conditions do nothing to slow him down, and indeed his mind is incredibly clear and determined.

This, this actual _forgetting_ is the last straw. He cannot live with himself, knowing that he has allowed the detective's image to fade from his mind. He knows how it will go, he has lost loved ones before. First it will be clear and precise details which will leave him. Then it will escalate until at last he will have trouble remembering exactly what colour hair Sherlock had, or how his voice sounded. John shakes his head resolutely as he rounds a corner and begins nearing Embankment. _No_. He will not allow Sherlock to fade away as if he had never existed. He will never permit himself to forget the detective. Such a thing is unthinkable. Therefore, he has to end this now. He has to stop his meaningless existence before Sherlock fades even further.

He doesn't know why he didn't go for the gun. Perhaps because it seems too apathetic to him now. Apathetic. Pathetic. No, in homage to Sherlock he will go out in a more dramatic fashion. Throwing himself into the frigid waters of the Thames will fit the bill marvellously. He chuckles and increases his pace until he is standing right in the middle of the Hungerford Bridge.

He glances to either side as he approaches the edge. Nobody. No trains passing over, and no pedestrians. He is utterly alone. Yes, and that is the problem.

'I miss you,' he whispers into the air. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I never wanted to forget you.' A steely determination fills his eyes. 'I _won't_ forget you.'

His toes hang over the edge as he shuffles forward. The cane drops from his nerveless fingers. Below him the waters of the Thames surge and wane with the wind, the grey waves choppy and sullen.

_Is this how he felt?_ _On the edge, wanting to end it all? _Briefly his mind fills with images of those who may miss him. His mother, Harry, Lestrade and perhaps Molly. A few of his old friends from his regiment. Mike Stamford. Nobody else. His hands clench at his sides as he moves a millimetre more over the edge. The wind echoes in his ears, accompanied by a throaty voice.

_Don't, John._

He starts and almost loses his balance. His arms pinwheel for a moment before he regains his equalibrium. He stares about him wildly. That was Sherlock. That _was_. Shuddering slightly he shakes his head and his muscles tense once more. This is it.

_I'm coming, John. _

This time he moves back from the edge of the bridge, once more looking about him as if expecting the detective to pop out from thin air.

'Sherlock? Where are you?'

_John_.

'Where are you? Why can't I see you?'

_Hold on, John._

'Come back, Sherlock! Please, come back!'

There is no responding voice on the wind. And yet those brief moments when he'd heard Sherlock's voice as clear as if the detective was standing right next to him have given him pause. He takes a long hard look at the churning waters of the Thames and shakes his head a little.

'Alright, Sherlock,' he mutters under his breath. 'You win. For now. As always.' He chuckles mirthlessly to himself and turns on his heel, heading back over the bridge. Back to his flat. Back to his existence.

XXXXXXXXXX

'It was a white wine wasn't it?'

Molly smiles and nods, taking the glass as Lestrade sits down opposite her. 'Yes. Thank you.'

'How are you?' the Inspector asks awkwardly, drumming his fingers on the table. Molly flicks her ponytail over her shoulder and takes a sip of wine.

'I'm alright. Better than John, anyway.'

Lestrade rolls his eyes. '_Anybody_ would be better than John right now.' Molly nods in sombre agreement.

'He's worse, isn't he?'

Lestrade barks out a laugh. 'That's an understatement. I thought he was finally beginning to shake himself out of this fugue. But I dropped round to see him just last week and when he opened the door to me I don't think I've ever seen him look worse. He didn't even speak. Just sat in his chair gazing into space while I talked to myself.'

Molly drops her gaze down to the table. 'I can't even meet up with him now. Not when I know...' she trails off and her face flushes. Lestrade frowns bemusedly.

'When you know?' he prompts.

'How... how much he's hurting,' Molly finishes, still not raising her eyes from the table. Lestrade sits silent for a moment and then nods to himself.

'I never thought losing Sherlock would affect him like this. I knew they were close, hell, they were hardly ever apart but... this is extreme. His reaction, I mean. It's been over three years now. He should be getting over it.'

'Do you think they...' Molly doesn't finish the sentence but makes an obscure gesture with her hands. Nevertheless, Lestrade grasps her meaning.

'No,' he says, laughing a little. 'I know there were bets around the Yard about how,' he coughs, '_involved_ they really were but I don't think there was anything like that between them.' He pauses and worries at his lip meditatively. 'Although if Sherlock was going to be in a relationship with anybody it would have been John.' He glances at Molly suddenly. 'Sorry if that was insensitive. I know you, erm, _liked_ Sherlock.'

Molly rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair. 'I did. And for awhile I nursed this incredible crush on him. But just before he died I'd started to see him more as a brother. Plus, I'd seen the way he looked at John.'

Lestrade raises his eyebrows quizzically and takes a deep gulp of his beer. 'Oh yes? And how was that?'

'Like John was his whole world,' Molly replies simply. 'I could never compete with that. And I didn't want to. Whatever they had, it was something special.'

Lestrade nods in agreement. 'We have to do something to help John. He is literally tearing himself to pieces over this.'

Molly shrugs helplessly. 'What can we do? If he doesn't want to be helped? We've all tried to get through to him, but it's no good.'

'Just keep trying, I suppose.' He gestures at her empty glass. 'Shall I get the next round in?' She looks indecided. 'Or we could, I don't know, head back to mine?' As soon as the words are out, he regrets them. He can feel the flush spreading up from his neck. Why on _earth_ had he said that? He'd liked Molly Hooper for a long time but he'd never meant the invitation to sound quite so... blatant. 'Not for... I mean, I have coffee and tea and things. I just meant if you didn't want to, erm, stay here. Just keep talking, is what I meant. Just talking.'

Molly smiles and Lestrade is struck by the way it lights up her whole face. She catches one of his fluttering hands with her own and holds it firmly. 'That sounds good, Greg. I'd like that.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'How are things going?'

'Very well. I believe I shall be returning to London next week.' Even over the phone Sherlock cannot quite hide his excitement. For three long years he has pursued Moriaty's network over a variety of continents. All for one purpose, to keep the most important person in his life safe.

'Not a minute too soon.'

'Why? What's happened?'

There is a deep sigh on the other end of the line. 'Keeping an eye on John is one thing, Sherlock. But he has been displaying worrying behaviour and as he will not even talk to me on the phone I find myself powerless to help him.'

'Worrying behaviour? What sort of behaviour, Mycroft?' Sherlock's voice is strained and tense. In his London office Mycroft rubs at his temples.

'Suffice to say John Watson has not been adapting to life without you particularly well.'

'I need details, Mycroft,' Sherlock snaps.

'That is not for me to say.' The elder Holmes's voice softens slightly. 'Just come home, Sherlock. And quickly. John needs you.'

XXXXXXXXXX

The last one has finally been done. John smiles and collapses back into his armchair, gazing about the living room. Little post-it notes dot every surface, each one scrawled over with black marker pen. _Dark brown hair_ proclaims one. _Curly almost to ringlets_ announces another right below it. Others bear different messages such as _Eyes subject to change: main colours are Green, Blue and Grey. Slender build. Purple shirt. Full lips (cubid-bow?) Large, straight nose. Cheekbones. Coat with collar. Scarf. Deep, baritone voice. Violinist. Long, elegant fingers. Long neck. Shoe size: 10. 34 years of age. Genius. Madman. Mine._

'Let's see me try and forget you now, eh Sherlock?' John murmurs, taking a sip of his tea. In addition to the post-its he has also dug out a number of photographs which have been displayed in prominent positions around the room. Due to the fact that Sherlock absolutely hated having his photo taken, the majority of the snapshots are taken from newspapers where the cameraman managed to get a sneak shot, or photos from press events. However there is one which occupies pride of place on John's mantelpiece. He's even framed it.

It shows John and Sherlock standing just outside a crime-scene, the police tape is fluttering in the background. Although officers are milling around, the two of them are clearly in shot. John is leaning up to say something into Sherlock ear, his back is to the camera. Sherlock is standing side-on to John but he has twisted his head so as to hear what John is saying and therefore his face is captured clearly. He has a beaming smile on his face and his eyes are crinkled at the corners. John can recognise Sherlock's genuine happiness and feels proud when he knows that it was what _he_ was saying which put that expression on Sherlock's face. As far as he knows, nobody else has ever managed to coax such uninibited joy from the detective. That privilege was reserved for him, and him alone.

He picks up his mug and is about to take another sip when he realises it's empty. He scowls deeply and then gets to his feet. His flat is tiny so it only takes him a few seconds to shuffle out to the kitchen and flick on the kettle. On reflection he may be drinking a little too much tea, but surely it is better than losing himself in alcohol? He has no wish to turn into his sister and knows that in his current state of mind, the state of mind he has held for the past three years, beginning to drink to excess would be a very bad idea. He flips a teabag into his mug and then heaves open the fridge door. The milk carton is empty. He frowns again and grabs it to give it an experimental shake. Yes, empty. Why on earth had he put an empty carton back in the fridge?

'Tesco it is,' he mutters to himself, glancing out of the window at the lowering grey skies and really not relishing the admittedly short but still somehow exhausting walk to the local shop. Still, it can't be avoided. He cannot go the rest of the day without tea.

XXXXXXXXXX

Inside the supermarket John heads straight to the cold section and plops four pints of milk into his basket. Overdoing it, perhaps, but he'd rather not be caught short again. Automatically he begins running through the contents of the cupboards back at the flat and decides he should probably pick up a few other items as well. He's running low on cereals, which is virtually the only thing he can now force himself to eat in the mornings.

He heads to the appropriate aisle and about halfway along he finds what he is looking for, only it's situated on the very top shelf.

'For fu...' he begins, trailing off and clenching his fists. Absently he glances around hoping for the presence of a handily tall Tesco employee but has no luck. Although he knows it won't be any good, he makes an effort to reach. Almost immediately he realises it's a bad idea. His head swims with the exertion and he sinks back onto his heels, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the shelves.

'Need some help?'

He turns to see a man in frayed, baggy jeans and a grey quicksilver hoodie approaching up the aisle. He makes an attempt at a smile, well aware that it probably looks more like a grimace.

'Cheers. It's the muesli just up on the top shelf there.'

The stranger stretches up easily, he has at least half a foot on John, snatches the box and hands it to John who places it in his basket.

'Thanks.' He nods to the man and turns away towards the checkout, already anticipating an evening with his feet up, mindless television and a hot mug of tea. If he's lucky, perhaps his ghost might visit.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock watches him go, his expression darkening with anxiety and pain as soon as John turns away. He'd had to pause before approaching John to let his exhilaration at seeing the doctor again fade. As he'd got close, however, he noticed how absolutely shattered John looked and recalls Mycroft's warnings that John hadn't been coping well. This hadn't been his intention. John was never supposed to have been this affected. Because it is clear to him now, oh so clear, just how his death has torn apart the one person he cares the most about.

_Caring_. _Caring is not an advantage_. However, very much against his will, he does care for John. And that left him with a choice. Either he could spend a lot of energy and time trying to expunge any sentiment connected with John from his mind, or he could just accept it and move on. Well. Sherlock Holmes is a genius. His regard for John Watson, therefore, lies contentedly in his mind, not making many demands, only occasionally rearing its head. This is most definitely one of these times.

He feels something twinge in his chest as he takes in the slumped posture, the slightly emaciated frame, the grey hair. John is diminished. And it is his fault.

Suddenly angry he whips out his phone and fires off a text to Mycroft.

_Why didn't you tell me? SH_

In a couple of seconds the device chimes and he stares down at the reply.

_Would it have made a difference?_

Now there's a question. Sherlock frowns and begins to follow John towards the checkout. _Would_ he have come back earlier, leaving Moriarty's web intact, if he'd known John was suffering this much? He cannot answer himself and so he continues following John from a distance, all the way out of the supermarket and back to the tiny flat the doctor is calling home now.

He stands on the corner of the street and watches as John twists his key in the lock, slips over the threshold and shuts the door.

It's now or never. This is when he has to summon up what remaining energy he has and be strong once more. And although he has crossed a multitude of continents and faced down hundreds of assailants, somehow the few metres from where he is to John's front door seem more daunting than any of it.


	2. Phantoms and Reality

**Chapter Two**

_**Phantoms and Reality**_

A gentle tap on the door startles John out of his doze. His much anticipated cup of tea stands cold beside him. He must have slipped into one of his reveries, he seems to be doing that a lot recently. Struggling to his feet, he glances once around the room, reassuring himself that all the post-its and the photos are still there, before going to the door.

As he stretches out a hand to turn the handle, he realises what is wrong. Shouldn't his buzzer have gone if someone had been outside wanting to see him? Is he being treated to a visit from one of his neighbours?

Sighing deeply he pulls the door open. And stares. The man from the supermarket is standing on the threshold, staring down at him. John's mouth opens and then shuts again. _What the hell is he doing here? At my flat?_ There is silence for a long time as they stare at each other. And is it John's imagination but is there something familiar about the stranger?

'John?'

That voice. That wasn't how he'd sounded in Tesco. John blinks. Slowly the stranger reaches up a hand and suddenly the spiked blonde hair is gone. In its place are tumbling dark curls. Another quick movement and instead of dark brown eyes there are piercing blue ones staring back at him. The rough, blonde goatee is peeled off leaving only pale, smooth skin behind. The disguise drops to the floor.

John begins to laugh.

Sherlock frowns, his gaze flickering as he tries to deduce John's startling reaction.

'Well, come in! Or are you going to stand out there all day?'

Still chuckling, John begins to move back inside the flat. Sherlock crosses the threshold and shuts the door quietly behind him.

'Should have known you'd turn up in a suitably dramatic fashion after leaving me for months,' John remarks, settling himself back into his chair. Sherlock enters the living room uneasily, his eyes widening as he notices the numerous post-its and photographs. He stands awkwardly , not entirely sure where he is supposed to go from here. He'd been prepared for tears, rage and very possibly a right-hook to the face. He'd been prepared for shock and disbelief. He definitely hadn't expected this. Something is very wrong.

'_... leaving me for months.'_ He's been gone _years_. His unease deepens.

'John, I'm really here. This is me.' He tries for short and simple.

John wags a finger at him. 'Don't try that on me again. I've got wise to that now. I'm not going to lay a hand on you. I want to see how long you'll stay this time.' He frowns slightly. 'I have to say, you're not as chatty as usual. Is that just because I'm tired, perhaps?' He yawns. 'It always was a chore trying to work you out.'

'This isn't your imagination.' His hands clench into fists at his sides. 'John, I am actually here.'

John stares at him for a moment and then shakes his head violently. 'No, Sherlock. You're a delusion. I've come to terms with it, don't worry.' He leans forward confidentially. 'To be honest, I'm happy you've come back. I thought I was forgetting you. That's what all this is for,' he waves an arm expansively at the odd little notes decorating the room. 'It serves as a reminder. I was hoping you'd visit me again.'

Sherlock huffs in frustration and takes a step closer to John's chair. 'I am not a delusion, John, will you please refrain from being an unobservant idiot for one second and apply my methods? How do you think a _ghost_ shut your front door?'

John opens his mouth to respond and then seems to rethink. Slowly he hauls himself out of his chair and peers around the corner of the living room door, being careful not to get too close to Sherlock. The detective notices this and that something twinges again. John stares at his shut front door for a long time, and Sherlock can almost see the racing thoughts teeming through his dulled mind.

'I must have shut it when I let you in,' he mutters eventually, holding onto the corner of his bookcase. Sherlock shakes his head.

'No, John. You're better than that. You _know_ you didn't shut the door. I did.' He pauses and then decides to put everything on the line. 'And you can touch me. I won't disappear. I promise you.'

John finally looks at him, fully, and Sherlock sees those tired eyes cloud over with some deep emotion. John shakes his head weakly.

'No. I won't. I won't lose you again.'

Sherlock takes a step forward and automatically John stumbles back, clinging to the bookshelf for balance. Immediately Sherlock halts his movement. 'You never lost me, John. Not really. I never died.'

John laughs again, a mirthless sound and rubs his fists into his eyes. 'You have a grave. I saw you... you're dead, Sherlock. You're dead, and I'm mad.' He raises his gaze to Sherlock's face. 'What a pair we make, eh?'

Sherlock's mind is racing. There are so many conflicting emotions running riot, no wonder he'd attempted to shut off all feeling for so long. How can people stand to feel like this? The main thought is simple. _I have to get John to believe I'm real_.

'You were a soldier, John,' he says at last. 'And I have seen your bravery many times over. I realise that, in the past, you have seen me. Or conjured me up. All I'm asking is for you to touch me. Just once. Be brave.'

There is a long silence and then John takes a halting step forward. Sherlock remains stationary, hardly daring to breathe, knowing that this is important. He cannot force John to touch him. He cannot force John to believe in his reality. The doctor has to come to that on his own.

Step by stumbling step, John approaches, one hand outstretched a little. Sherlock can see, out of the corner of his eye, John's fingers shaking. He ignores it, and keeps his gaze firmly upon John's face.

There is only a centimetre of space between John's fingers and Sherlock's arm now. John hesitates, his blue eyes both terrified and determined. Sherlock can see how much this is costing him.

There it is. The most fleeting of touches as John's fingers brush against the soft fabric of Sherlock's hoodie. Immediately John's eyes snap shut. Sherlock breathes.

'I'm still here, John. Open your eyes.'

He does. And this time his fingers clench on Sherlock's arm.

'Sherlock,' John breathes. And then he pitches forwards.

XXXXXXXXXX

John's eyes flicker open and he stares dazedly at Sherlock's anxious face which is hovering above him.

'John?'

Ah. That's right. His delusion. Which, actually, had turned out to be real. Abruptly he sits up, dislodging the detective from what had obviously been a precarious position as he is now looking at John from where he has collapsed on the carpet.

John stares at him.

'You're here?' he asks simply.

'Yes.'

'You're alive.'

'Yes.'

John nods once and then sinks his head into his hands, massaging his temples. 'Jesus _Christ_, Sherlock.'

'I know it's a lot to take in.'

'You died, Sherlock. You were dead. There's a grave with your name on it.'

'Yes. But I didn't actually die, John.'

John's numbing shock is beginning to melt into the first stirrings of what he recognises as absolute fury and also hot, burning embarrassment. His gaze takes in all the little notes and the photographs and he sees the evidence of his own desperation. And now Sherlock has seen it too. He attempts to hold back his anger but he may as well have tried to stay a tidal wave.

Moving fast he gets up from the sofa, bends down to where Sherlock is still sprawled and heaves the detective to his feet. His muscles, unused to such activity, scream in protest. Uncaring he grasps Sherlock by his hoodie before letting fly with his right fist.

Sherlock falls away from him, one of his hands coming up instinctively to clutch his face.

'You absolute bastard,' John snarls, yanking Sherlock up again and getting ready to hit him again. Sherlock doesn't attempt to get out of his grip, merely closes his eyes and turns his face slightly, as if presenting John with an easier target. Already a red mark is rising on his pale cheekbone and John knows he is going to have one hell of a bruise there. He drops his hands and takes a step backwards, shaking his head.

'Get out.'

Sherlock frowns and fidgets with the hem of his sleeve. 'What?'

'You heard me. Out. You. Get.'

Sherlock moves forwards a little, his eyes pleading. 'If you'd give me a chance to explain, John. I... this was all for you.'

John laughs bitterly and turns away. 'Don't start with that, Sherlock. I know exactly why you did it. For you. Pure selfishness. Don't try to pretend it had anything to do with me.'

'But it did!' Sherlock protests, by some miracle of will preventing himself from moving to stand right in John's eyeline. 'It had everything to do with you!'

'Stop it!' John screams, whirling around, his eyes for the first time properly alight. 'Don't, Sherlock! Just go. I have spent _years_ waiting and hoping and praying you weren't dead. And all the while you were off somewhere, swanning around, doing what you do. Did you ever even think of me?' Sherlock opens his mouth to reply and John holds up a hand. 'That was rhetorical, Sherlock. It's obvious you didn't. Not one single thought as to how your _death_ affected me. And now you come waltzing back in here expecting everything to go back to normal?' He shakes his head again and points in the direction of the door. 'Go, Sherlock.'

'John...' Sherlock murmurs, in one last abortive effort to try and make John listen. Instead the doctor grabs hold of him and actually manhandles him down the corridor to the front door. Opening it, he virtually throws the detective out and then the door is slammed shut behind him.

Sherlock leans against the wood, knowing it will be useless to try and get John to open up again, at least for the meantime. Carefully he raises fingers to his face and traces the tender flesh. He's had a lot worse over the past three years. A _lot_ worse. But somehow this one hurts more than all of them put together.

Slowly he takes a deep breath, trying to quell the panic rising inside him. What if John never wants to see him again? What if, by pulling that last stunt he has somehow accidentally broken the last of John's famous patience with him? No. He cannot allow himself to think like that. John is upset, that is all. He needs some time.

Staring down at the floor he realises that his disguise is still lying scattered over the doormat. Slowly he picks up the wig, the contacts and the fuzzy goatee and stuffs them into the pocket of his hoodie. He casts one last look back at John's front door and then shuffles out, back to Baker Street.

XXXXXXXXXX

It takes Sherlock some time to calm Mrs Hudson down. Finally, after about half an hour, she heads back to her own flat muttering something about making him some food. He doesn't want to eat, he wants John. Although, now he thinks about it, he cannot remember the last time he ate. Frowning he thinks back over the last few days. There had been a hectic chase to finally find Moran in Paris, that final part of the destruction of Moriarty's web had lasted almost a week. And he is fairly sure he didn't eat anything at all.

Suddenly his vision blurs and he sits down hard on the sofa which is blessedly right behind him. He probably _should_ have something, if only to stop Mrs Hudson's incessant worrying. A gnawing pain claws at his stomach and his sight swims alarmingly again. Desperately he clutches at the sofa cushions with both hands. Yes, he really should...

'Sherlock? _Sherlock?_' He groans, aware that somebody is shaking him. Slowly his eyes drag themselves open and manage to fix upon Mrs Hudson who has grabbed him by the shoulders. 'Oh, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?' she murmurs, pulling him up to a sitting position. Sherlock can hardly hear her. All he can focus on is the steaming bowl on the table which smells a lot like chicken soup and a plate piled high with sandwiches. His stomach clenches painfully once more.

'I'm fine, Mrs Hudson,' he manages to croak, not taking his eyes off the food. 'I think I just need to have something to eat.'

'You're not well, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson says fretfully. 'I should call John, I'm sure I have his number around somewhere.'

'No!' Sherlock says abruptly. 'Don't phone him.'

'I understand he'll be shocked but he should be here. He's a doctor.'

'I've already seen him. He... he reacted badly and I think he needs some time.' Not wanting to wait any longer Sherlock weakly drags the plate of sandwiches onto his lap and takes a deep bite, chewing only a couple of times before swallowing.

'I don't know how to deal with this, dear!' Mrs Hudson almost wails, wringing her hands anxiously. 'Look at how skinny you are! There's nothing to you, you're even worse than you used to be.'

'I'm _fine_, Mrs Hudson, don't fuss,' Sherlock snaps irritably, cursing his body at letting him down so drastically. His landlady scowls at him and then crosses her arms and sits down next to him. 'What are you doing?'

'I'm going to sit here and make sure you eat every single thing on that plate and in that bowl. If you refuse to call John then I'll just do the best I can.'

'And what if I don't eat it?' Sherlock says challengingly, although it's really more for form's sake as the first few bites of the sandwich have very effectively woken up his appetite and he's having trouble restraining himself from bolting the lot down. Mrs Hudson fixes him with a stern glare.

'Then I'll ring John regardless.' She points at the food. 'Now eat!'

XXXXXXXXXX

John does not even try going to bed. Instead he sits in his armchair having cried himself into exhaustion. Sherlock. Sherlock is alive and here, in London. Sherlock was at his flat, just a few short hours ago. Rubbing at his temples he sinks his head even lower towards the carpet. After a few seconds his head jerks up again, his eyes wide. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was with him, in the flesh, breathing and talking. And he'd... he'd punched him and then thrown him out. The man he has spent the last three years obsessing over. Longer than that, really. The man who has haunted his every waking thought and nightmare since the Fall.

And yes, John has every right to be angry, still is. In fact, he's furious. But he hadn't let Sherlock explain. He'd barely let him speak. He drums his fingers against the armrest of the sofa. Knowing Sherlock, there is bound to be an explanation. John expects that it will most probably be almost incomprehensible to him, most things concerning the detective are. And he doubts that, whatever the reason, he will be able to forgive Sherlock. But he owes it to their friendship to at least listen.

Hurriedly he picks up his phone and rings a number he'd never thought to use again. Mycroft picks up on the first ring.

'John. What a delight to hear from you.'

'Spare me the crap, Mycroft. I know you know your brother's alive. Where is he?'

There is the smallest of pauses and a delicate cough from Mycroft's end. 'He is where you'd expect him to be, Doctor Watson. He is back at Baker Street.'

John ends the call, throws on his jacket and heads out of the door. It is not until he is halfway to Baker Street that he realises he has left his cane behind.

XXXXXXXXXX

He finds himself hesitating as he stands before the well-remembered chipped dark paint and gold lettering of 221B. His anger still pulses, the most dominant emotion in him at the moment. He cannot guarantee that he won't hit Sherlock again when he sees him. _If_ he sees him. Most of him is expecting that Mrs Hudson will wrap a pitying arm around his shoulders and say that _of course_ Sherlock is not there, Sherlock is dead. Don't you remember, John?

Squaring his shoulders he raps smartly on the door.

There is a soft patter of footsteps and then his old landlady is there before him. She blinks for a moment before her face is wreathed in a beaming smile.

'Oh John! It's so good to see you!' She wraps him in a hug which he returns awkwardly before pulling away.

'You too, Mrs Hudson. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch recently.'

She waves a hand. 'Don't worry about it, dear. I understand.'

'Is he here?'

She pauses and her expression becomes anxious. More than ever John is expecting now to hear proof of his own delusions.

'He is.' Unaware he is doing so, John exhales in relief. 'But I think he needs you, John.'

'He's never needed me,' John replies curtly. Haven't the past three years proved that beyond all doubt?

'Well, he needs a doctor at any rate.' Immediately John narrows his eyes and his heartbeat picks up slightly.

'Why? What's wrong with him?'

'Well, he came in here, swish as you like and headed straight upstairs. I got him settled and went to make him some food, the poor man looked like he hadn't eaten for a week. When I got back he'd fainted on the sofa...'

Mrs Hudson doesn't get any further. John is already barrelling towards the stairs and the entrance to their old flat.

'You never learn do you?' The words fly out of his mouth without any interruption from his brain. Sherlock turns in surprise, his eyes widening as he spots John on the threshold.

'John? What...?'

'Everything I tried to teach you about looking after yourself. Basic nutrition, Sherlock!' He stalks into the living room and Sherlock takes a few steps backwards warily. John stops dead. For the first time since Sherlock's big appearance he fully takes in the detective. Sherlock's hair is dishevelled as if he has run his hands through it many times. Errant curls stand on end. His eyes are tired and his face has lines which weren't there before. High on his temple, just where his hairline begins, is a thin and winding scar. The grey hoodie and scuffed jeans are very baggy. 'Take off your hoodie, Sherlock.'

Instinctively Sherlock's hands clutch at the garment in question. 'I don't see how...'

'Take it off, Sherlock.'

Slowly, dropping his gaze to the carpet, Sherlock pulls off the hoodie. Behind him John hears Mrs Hudson's gasp. Beneath the outer layer Sherlock is wearing a thin black t-shirt which clings to his virtually skeletal frame. John can see a few more scars on his arms and dreads to think how many more the detective's clothes are hiding.

Without stopping to think about it he crosses the space between them and wraps Sherlock in his arms. The detective is rigid with shock. Slowly, however, he softens and tentatively pats John on the back.

'I haven't forgiven you,' John whispers into his ear. 'Not by a long shot. But it is so good to have you back.'

He eases Sherlock down onto the sofa and kneels on the floor in front of him. 'How badly are you hurt?' He is so focused on the other man that he isn't aware of Mrs Hudson mumbling her excuses and leaving.

'Superficial injuries,' Sherlock says, shrugging. 'Nothing of importance.'

John nods once or twice, a few muscles in his face twitching. Slowly he gets to his feet and paces over towards the window. 'Where the hell have you been?'

'Everywhere. Or that's how it feels, at least.'

'Everywhere apart from here. Three sodding years, Sherlock. You couldn't have found the time to send me a text?'

Sherlock eyes John warily. The man has oscillated between disbelief, shock and finally anger. This, however, seems to be the worst reaction so far. This dulled acceptance that he means nothing to Sherlock.

'I couldn't,' Sherlock responds. 'It would have put you at risk. You had to believe I was dead.'

'Oh well then, Sherlock Holmes wins the gold!' John spits venemously. 'A brilliant performance. You certainly had me convinced. You've got the wrong profession, you should have been an actor. Tell me, did it amuse you to watch me tearing myself apart over you?'

'Of course not. And I didn't watch you. Mycroft sent me updates regularly.'

'Of course he did. And how did those conversations go, I wonder? "How's John?" "Oh, you know, same as usual. Still standing on the edges of bridges debating whether to throw himself off." "Oh right. Well, let me know if anything changes." Is that how it went?'

Sherlock's face has drained of colour. 'You.. you didn't, John. Tell me you don't mean that.' John sighs and some of the tension leaves his body.

'It doesn't matter anymore. You're back, and I want answers.'

'Moriarty had assassins ready to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't jump. I had no choice.'

This does momentarily throw John off track, but soon enough he is back in with the attack, his eyes blazing. 'Okay. Fine. So you throw yourself off a building and force me to watch. Presumably the assassins then pack up and leave. Why on earth couldn't you have let me know?'

'Because Moriarty's intricate web had to be taken down strand by strand,' Sherlock says earnestly, willing John to understand. 'While the organisation was still intact it would have been hugely dangerous for anybody to know I was alive.'

'Mycroft knew,' John counters swiftly.

'Mycroft can protect himself,' Sherlock returns.

'Oh and I can't, is that it?' John stares at him for a moment and then a dark comprehension dawns on his face. 'You didn't trust me. That's it, isn't it? After all we'd been through together, everything we've done, you didn't trust me to keep your secret.'

'No, John, it wasn't like that. It's just the best actor is the one who doesn't know he's acting. Your genuine grief protected you.'

'Oh it was genuine alright,' John snarls. 'Hang on, I _did_ see you jump. How did you work that one out?'

'Molly helped me,' Sherlock responds evasively.

'Molly? Molly Hooper?'

'How many other Molly's do we know?' Sherlock responds with a hint of his old impatience. 'Yes, she did. I'm not going to go into the details now but she was instrumental in helping me.'

'So she knew then? All those times I grieved in front of her and she _knew_ you were alive?'

'Don't blame her, John. I forced her into it.'

'_That_ I can believe. That sort of low behaviour has Sherlock Holmes written all over it.' If John notices Sherlock's minute flinch he doesn't acknowledge it. 'And Molly was more trustworthy than me was she, with this big secret?'

'Molly didn't count,' Sherlock replies, adding quickly, 'at least, not to Moriarty. She never even registered on his radar. She was safe.'

'Molly never mattered to you either. She was just someone you used to get what you wanted and then tossed aside like rubbish.'

'That's not true,' Sherlock says quietly. 'Not at the end.'

'That's all us _ordinary_ people are to you, isn't it?' John continues, as if Sherlock hasn't spoken. 'Just tools to use when you need them and then throw aside. I'm surprised you even bothered coming back, actually. It's fairly obvious that I don't mean anything to you...'

'That's not true, John!' Sherlock says, raising his voice for the first time and getting up from the sofa. 'You mean everything to me. _Everything_.'

John scoffs. 'You don't know a thing about feelings, Sherlock. How many times have you told me that _caring is not an advantage_. That feelings are redundant? You're a machine.' Blinded by his own fury, John is hardly even aware of the words coming out of his mouth, much less that a few days after Sherlock's funeral he had said exactly the opposite at the graveside.

Sherlock blinks and stares down at the carpet before raising his gaze to John's. 'If I was a machine then doing my job would be a lot easier. I had cut off all feeling before I met you, you're right, I believed it slowed me down. You changed that. You changed me.' He takes a step forward, his eyes burning into John's face. 'I gave up everything for you, John. I worked for three years so that you would be safe, that we could be together again without the endless fear of Moriarty hanging over us. I willingly separated myself from the person who means the most to me to do it, _that_ was my sacrifice. I hurt you, and I lied to you, and I caused you huge amounts of pain and for that I am eternally sorry.'

'I can't deal with this right now,' John says, turning on his heel and heading for the door. 'Make sure you eat something for God's sake.'

'John?' Sherlock calls, following him. 'Are you going to be moving back into Baker Street?'

There is no reply from John and a few seconds later the front door of the building slams shut. Sherlock crosses to the window where he sees John striding away down the pavement. Sherlock stands there for a long time and only notices the tears once they start to soak the neckline of his t-shirt.


	3. Fury and Fever

**Chapter Three**

_**Fury and Fever**_

Back in his flat John whirls around in a fit of fury, ripping the post-it notes into pieces and tearing down the photos. He has never felt so angry, so embarrassed and so confused in his life. Finally the living-room is devoid of any notes or photos and he collapses on his bed, willing himself to calm down. For now he just wants to get some sleep. The question of what he is going to do with himself now that Sherlock has turned up again can wait until the morning.

He rises early the next day and although he is still angry, his mind is a lot clearer. After making himself breakfast and a cup of tea he settles down in the living room for what his father would have called _a long hard think_. First to be examined is Sherlock's explanation, or what he can remember of it. He'd spent much of Sherlock's reasoning yesterday in a mindless fugue of rage; so parts of it are a little blurry. He remembers the essentials though. Sherlock has been, for three years, travelling the world, apparently hunting down and destroying all of Moriarty's network. He did this because three assassins were waiting to kill him, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if Sherlock didn't jump. With typical Sherlock logic and determination, he had then decided that the only way to keep John safe was to continue faking his death and hunt them down. So far, so good. Well, not good, but at least vaguely understandable. What John has trouble wrapping his head around, however, is how little trust Sherlock placed in him to keep his secret. That and the fact that it is obvious the detective didn't even consider how his actions would affect John. Oh, Sherlock may profess to care about him but how can John believe that? The man is, after all, a self-proclaimed sociopath.

One of the worst parts about the whole mess is that John cannot help the pervading sense of embarrassment. Sherlock had been all over the world hunting, killing, destroying and all the while John had been closeted away in a tiny, soulless flat slowly losing himself piece by piece. The evidence of his inability to cope without Sherlock is all around him. It's in the scattered pieces of yellow paper and newspaper photographs which still litter the floor. It's in the fact that his cupboards are bare apart from cereal, milk and teabags. It's in his diminished frame and tired, dull eyes. His limp and the fact that he had twice attempted to end it all. And now that Sherlock is back he feels so utterly degraded and so... so _useless_. As if he needs to feel like this more. He spent enough time trailing in Sherlock's shadow when he was alive, always one step behind both in thought and deed.

The absolute worst aspect of the business is something that John has not spoken of to anybody, not to his therapist, not to his friends and most definitely not to Sherlock. After that night on the bridge he had spent quite some time examining his own thoughts and feelings concerning the detective. He knew well, having lost friends before in Afghanistan, how grieving for a friend should feel. After the bridge he came the realisation that his mourning for Sherlock went far beyond that which is appropriate and expected for a simple friend. Without Sherlock he felt strangely hollow, incomplete, like a husk of a person with the physical appearance and mannerisms of Captain John Watson but nothing inside. And then he got to thinking how many times people close to him in the past had hinted at there being something more than friendship between him and the detective. Hell, even people _not_ close to him. Like that insufferable Adler woman.

_I'm not gay._

_Well I am. Look at us both._

As much as John disliked the woman he couldn't help feeling later that she'd hit the nail on the head with that one. He isn't gay. She was. And yet they both had strong feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

Once that bombshell had dropped, John had tried a few experiments. In an attempt to fight off the overwhelming apathy, he'd tentatively looked at a few erotic sites on the internet targeted to gay men. He was strangely pleased to realise that he felt nothing whatsoever. When he looked at straight porn he still felt stirrings of arousal. Therefore he concluded that he was still the same John Watson, in regard to his personal sexual orientation. It just so happened that he was in love with his flatmate and best friend. Who, incidentally, just happened to be male. No big deal.

So yes, he loves Sherlock Holmes. And _that_ is the worst part. To learn that you mean next to nothing to the person who you adore beyond all others takes some getting over.

He knuckles his fists into his eyes for a moment to try and stop the ever-encroaching tears, gives himself a mental shake and then stands up to go and reboil the kettle. There is no use moping around and feeling sorry for himself. He spent three years doing that and he'll be damned if he's going to do anymore. He has to make a decision. Does he cut Sherlock out of his life and try and be happy, at least knowing that Sherlock Holmes is out in the world somewhere, alive? Or does he return to the detective and resume the lifestyle they had before? A life where he follows blindly after every move Sherlock makes, all the while attempting to hide his newly discovered feelings from Sherlock's all-seeing gaze.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock cries himself into an exhausted stupor. After a few hours he wakes and feels deeply disgusted with himself for showing such a common weakness. Glancing in the mirror he can see what a mess he has become. His hair is wild and unkempt. His eyes are reddened and puffy from crying. His skin is stretched tautly over his cheekbones. He knows that although he still remains fairly muscular, thanks to all the exertions taken over destroying his various assailants, he is definitely thinner than he was before he left London. And to cap it all off, there is this hateful _connection_ to John Watson which has remained resolutely unbroken during all his time away. Which may have actually, in defiance of all probability, grown stronger. _Absence makes the heart grow fonder_. One of his mother's nonsense sayings. Only now, he thinks she might have been right.

A shower. That's what he needs. He would have liked a hit of cocaine but cannot imagine disappointing John more than he has already. The hammering water of the shower should help clear his mind, in addition to easing all the various aches and pains currently pounding their way lethargically through his punished body.

Once in the bathroom he strips, leaving his tattered clothes in a pile next to the sink. He'll bin them tomorrow. He won't be wearing them again. They serve as a reminder of his time spent alone, in the darkness, maiming and killing. Over and over. His time spent without his blogger at his side.

As the water heats up he carefully examines the multitude of injuries he has picked up. Some have healed over months, _years_ ago and he needn't bother with them. Others are cause for more concern. None more than the hideously deep gash high up on the inside of his left thigh. Josef Tanner had been quicker than he'd given him credit for. He'd shot him eventually, but only after he had left his mark. A mark which is currently still red and vividly angry although it was inflicted at least a week ago. It stings and is tender to the touch. Sherlock is not a doctor but he knows this isn't right. It's probably infected, and the pathetic antibiotics he'd taken on the move have clearly not done a single thing to help.

In fact, as the water hits the irritated wound he has to hold back a hiss of pain and clenches his teeth tightly together.

He should get John to take a look. _What makes you think he's ever going to see you again?_ the little voice in his mind croons. _You abandoned him. Made him feel worthless. He's not going to patch you up this time_.

'You're wrong,' Sherlock murmurs, squeezing shampoo onto his hand and lathering his hair. 'He just needs some time. It's understandable.' The voice in his head is silent, but Sherlock cannot help obsessing over its words as he finishes his shower and begins drying off.

He wraps a towel around his waist and walks hurriedly into his bedroom to find that all his possessions have been boxed up and labelled neatly in John's handwriting. Cursing softly under his breath he begins shifting them until he finds several entitled: _Clothes_. Ripping open the top of the cardboard he seizes the first shirt, pair of trousers, underpants and socks that he sees. Raising them to his nose he realises they smell a little musty but they are infinitely better than that hideous hoodie and jeans he had been wearing.

He dresses quickly and then tugs a comb through his damp hair which is already beginning to spring up into its usual mess of curls.

When he re-enters the living room he snatches up his phone from the coffee table and texts John, having got the number from Mycroft.

_I'm sorry. When are you coming home? SH_

It is several minutes before a reply arrives and he scans it eagerly.

_I'm not. Yet. I don't know, Sherlock. Give me time. I need to figure stuff out._

Sherlock frowns and then types a response, his fingers flying over the keys.

_Would it help if I said please? SH_

The reply is short and to the point.

_No._

Desperately Sherlock searches his mind palace for any social instruction as to what he is supposed to do in a situation like this. Is he supposed to send John flowers and chocolates? No, that's for apologetic lovers. Is there any gift appropriate to give to a friend who believed you to be dead for three years? He runs through a few other options in his mind and then scowls and gets up. His leg wound twinges slightly as he does so.

What is he supposed to do now? He has to lie low for awhile until his name is cleared. Mycroft is in the process of doing so, over the past three years he has atoned for selling Sherlock out by collating all the information he possibly can to prove that Richard Brook was a fabrication, drawn from the mind of one of the greatest criminals the world has ever seen. He is almost there, apparently. But until all the paperwork has been finalised Sherlock has to keep a low profile.

Gazing around the room Sherlock shivers slightly. Mrs Hudson has obviously been keeping the thermostat on low while the flat remained vacant. He collects his dressing gown from one of the boxes in his room and then heads into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. A hot drink to warm him up is what he needs now. Although the tea would taste a lot better if it were John making it, he is sure.

A couple of hours later and the shivers are still not subsiding. Grumbling to himself he gathers up some blankets and piles them onto the sofa in the living room. He really will have to talk to Mrs Hudson about putting on the heating. He would do it himself but he has no idea where the thermostat is. John was always the one who dealt with that sort of thing. John.

Sherlock cocoons himself in his blankets and waits for the dawn, praying for no nightmares.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock is woken by Mrs Hudson clattering around in the kitchen. He is still freezing and so draws the blankets even tighter around himself.

'Mrs Hudson?' he calls out, feeling too lethargic to move from the sofa. She pokes her head around the partition door.

'I'm making you some breakfast, dear. But only because you looked so peaceful lying there, I didn't want to disturb you. Remember, I'm not your...'

'Housekeeper, I'm aware,' Sherlock snaps, although he knows his words lack the usual bite. 'Could you put the heating on? I don't know where the thermostat is.'

Mrs Hudson blinks at him. 'It feels plenty warm to me, dear. Hold on a tick, I'll go and check.' Soon she is back, concern in her eyes now. 'It's up to almost full, Sherlock. You surely can't be cold?'

Sherlock frowns. 'I'm freezing. There must be something wrong with it, you should call somebody in.'

Mrs Hudson is now approaching him cautiously. Gently she kneels by the sofa and puts the back of her hand against his forehead. 'You're burning up, Sherlock!'

Sherlock scoffs at her. 'I am not, I'm frozen! Honestly woman, can't you tell the difference?' As usual Mrs Hudson ignores his tone and stands up, gazing at him all the while.

'I think you've got a temperature. Although to me, it seems more like a fever. Have you seen yourself?'

'I know perfectly well what I look like, Mrs Hudson.' Nevertheless he hauls himself to his feet and peers into the mirror hanging over the fireplace. What he sees surprises him. His hair is stuck to his forehead in damp rivulets. His eyes are slightly bloodshot and two spots of high colour adorn each cheekbone.

'Is there something you're not telling me, Sherlock?'

His mind flashes instantly to the gash on his leg. Perhaps those pills Toby gave him in France hadn't had an effect. Instantly his mind begins to run over all the symptoms of growing infection. Fever is right up there on the list.

'I may have an injury which has become infected. It's nothing, I'm sure. I'll simply ride it out until John returns. Then he can take a look.'

Mrs Hudson glares at him. 'Sherlock you are very unwell. You have to call John over now. Either that or go to the hospital.'

'I can't go to the hospital, Mrs Hudson, I'm supposed to be dead until Mycroft clears my name! I did tell you... several times,' he adds in an undertone. Mrs Hudson scowls and crosses her arms.

'Call John. Or go to hospital. I can feed you when you haven't eaten for a few days but this is completely beyond me, Sherlock!'

'I can't call him,' Sherlock murmurs. 'He hasn't forgiven me. He needs time.' His landlady inhales deeply and then turns on her heel and leaves the flat.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Hello?'

'John? It's Mrs Hudson, dear.'

'Mrs Hudson? Is everything alright?'

'Well, I'm not sure. I think you should come over.'

Immediately John's eyes narrow. 'Why? What's he done now? I told him not to bother me for awhile, I need time to sort things out...'

'Stop it, John,' Mrs Hudson snaps and her tone is so sharp that John immediately shuts up, his eyes wide with astonishment. He can count on one hand the amount of times his landlady has used that tone of voice with him. 'Stop thinking about yourself for one moment. Sherlock needs you. I would take him to hospital but he's insistent that he can't go. As he's supposed to be dead and everything.'

John is immediately alarmed and his mind flashes back to how thin Sherlock had looked when he'd last seen him. 'What's wrong?'

Now Mrs Hudson's tone has lost its edge and simply sounds worried. 'I'm not sure, exactly. I'm not a doctor. But he's burning up and insists that he's freezing cold. The heating in the flat is almost on full but he's wrapped up in about five blankets. It looks like a fever to me, and he did mention something about an injury which has got infected. He said he'd wait until you were ready to see him again.' Is it John's imagination or is there a note of reproach in Mrs Hudson's voice.

_Justifiably so. After all, how have you behaved since Sherlock has been back? You punch him, kick him out, go around allegedly to hear his story, shout at him and ignore virtually everything he's saying and then leave with no more assurance than "you need some time to think". You've been so concerned with _your_ problems and _your_ grievances that you've completely ignored what it might have cost him. The man you're supposed to _love_._

'I'll be right there,' John says in a voice which doesn't sound like his own. He is out of the flat, remembering to grab his old doctor's bag, in a split second. In the taxi, fragments of Sherlock's voice echo in his mind.

_Moriarty had assassins ready to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade..._

_That's not true, John! You mean everything to me. Everything!_

_I willingly separated myself from the person who means the most to me... _that_ was my sacrifice._

'Oh God, Sherlock,' John mutters, earning himself a suspicious look from the taxi driver. How has he managed to fuck everything up so spectacularly? How has he been this selfish? All this time he was accusing Sherlock of not thinking about him, and hasn't he been doing exactly the same thing? Wallowing in his own misery while Sherlock, who isn't good at social interactions at the best of times, flounders about trying to explain himself without John as his guide.

_You are justified, though. You are right to be angry_.

Yes. But he cannot let his anger lose him Sherlock. Not again. Thumping his fist into the soft leather of the seat, another glare from the driver, he cudgels his brain into focusing on the issue at hand. Namely, Sherlock's health. Well, at least that's nothing new.

'Where is he?'

Mrs Hudson beams at him and gestures up the stairs. 'In the living room last time I left him. Shivering like there's no tomorrow and insisting there's nothing to worry about.' John moves forward but is halted by Mrs Hudson's hand on his sleeve. 'I'm glad you're back, dear. You haven't seen how he's been. It almost destroyed him when you left.'

'Yeah, I know how that feels,' John says quietly before ascending the stairs. He doesn't bother calling out. Instead he pushes open the door and steps in, his gaze fixed on the sofa. Sherlock is curled up in a foetal position, the blankets piled high on his body. He's shaking and John notes the spots of crimson staining his cheeks.

'Sherlock?'

The detective moves as if he is going to sit up and then falls back down with a groan. 'John. You're not supposed to be, here. You're... time, you need, sorry, be fine. Just fine.' His eyes dart around the flat, anywhere but at John. The doctor sees the tear tracks, spots the reddened skin around the eyes and realises that Sherlock has spent much of the time they were apart since the explanation crying.

'Oh, Sherlock,' he murmurs, moving over to the couch and heaving the detective into a sitting position. 'What have you done?'

'It's nothing,' Sherlock coughs, hawking into his hand, a flush covering his face. 'Just a cut. Might have got infected. Took pills for it. Feels itchy. Sore.'

'Sherlock, that can lead to serious complications. Forget the fever, what about blood poisoning? Jesus, if you'd let this go on you could have...' John trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. 'Okay, let's just, can I see it? Where is it?'

For some reason Sherlock's flush deepens and he averts his eyes. 'It's... on, it's my... on my leg.'

'Right, okay. Whereabouts?' This time Sherlock seemingly cannot respond audibly and merely points. John swallows.

'Ah. Okay.' _Get it together, John, you're a doctor._ 'Can you take off your trousers? Or do you need me to do it?' He makes sure to keep his tone soft and soothing. It is clear that Sherlock is deeply agitated. The younger man flushes deeper and looks utterly miserable as his reddened eyes connect with John's.

'You. I can't. Hurts.'

John nods understandingly, undoes the button at the waistband and then draws the zip down. He takes another deep breath before he hooks his fingers into the fabric and gently starts to tug. Sherlock raises his hips a little to help but otherwise remains staring steadfastedly into the distance. He winces a little as the fabric brushes against the wound but soon enough John has the trousers tugged down to his knees.

John sees it immediately. The injury seems to scream out for attention. It hasn't healed, that much is obvious and the edges are a garish crimson. The whole cut is about three inches in length and perhaps a centimetre in width.

'_Jesus_, Sherlock,' he whispers, shaking his head and reaching for his bag. 'Did you not even think to worry about this? The thigh is one of the most dangerous places for infection. The femoral artery? Does that mean anything to you? You're lucky the knife didn't pierce it! You'd have been dead within a few minutes. And it could still carry the infection straight to your heart. And once that happens, it's game over.' His voice shakes slightly on the last part and he busies himself with organising his kit.

'Took, pills,' Sherlock mutters. 'Probably not good. Toby. France. Not real doctor. Not like my doctor. My doctor.'

It is clear that the fever is turning Sherlock slightly delirious. His sentences have become more and more disjointed, nevertheless, John cannot help a frisson of pleasure as he hears Sherlock's last few words.

'I'm going to clean it for you now, okay?' As he speaks, John is already readying his swab and dabbing iodine from his bag onto it. 'It will sting a little but it has to be done.' He doesn't know if Sherlock has even heard him. The detective has slumped against the back of the sofa and his gaze is still fixed somewhere in the distance. John swipes the cloth against the cut and tries to ignore the hiss of pain from above him. He repeats the action until he is certain that the wound is thoroughly clean.

'Right. Antibiotics. They'll fight the infection. You shouldn't need stitches, you're lucky.' He grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, shakes out a couple of pills into his palm and holds them out to Sherlock. The detective drags his gaze back to John and fumbles the pills into his mouth, following them down with the water.

''M sorry, John,' Sherlock mumbles, his head falling sideways against the cushion. 'Sorry. Everything.' A slight tightening of John's facial muscles is all the outward sign he shows of his inner emotion.

'John?' He twists his head to see Mrs Hudson hovering in the doorway, her anxious eyes fixed on Sherlock. 'Will he be okay?'

'It's early days but I think we caught it in time. He'll just need some antibiotics, bedrest, proper nutrition and hydration. That should be enough for his body to fight off the infection.' He turns his attention back to the wound and carefully places a square of gauze over it, taping the sides in place neatly and efficiently. 'He'll have to sleep here, I'm not up to moving him. And besides, if I sleep on the floor I'll hear him if he needs me.' John heaves himself to his feet, groaning as his knees creak slightly. 'Do you happen to have any spare bedding?'

'Of course,' Mrs Hudson replies, disappearing for a few minutes and then returning with an armful of linen. 'I'll leave you to it.' He nods and Mrs Hudson fidgets for a moment before crossing the space swiftly and hugging him. He returns her embrace hesitantly and she pulls away, her eyes tearing up. 'It's so good you're back, dear.'

John listens to her footsteps die away and then begins setting up for the night. Sherlock has clearly passed out from exhaustion and John feels another twinge of guilt for giving him such a rough time. Carefully he finishes removing Sherlock's trousers and socks before moving him so that he is lying down on the sofa. He places a couple of pillows under Sherlock's head and then throws one of the blankets over him.

His own bed takes hardly any time to prepare. He takes the seat cushions from the armchairs and fashions himself a mattress and then adds the rest of the bedding. He strips quickly until he is down to his boxers and undershirt and then slides under the chilled duvet.

XXXXXXXXXX

John jerks awake suddenly. Peering blearily at his phone he can see it's just gone half past two in the morning. What has woken him?

'Please...'

The breathy gasp comes from above him. Squinting he makes out Sherlock tossing and turning on the narrow sofa. The blanket John threw over him is now tangled about his bare legs. Hurriedly he gets up and hits the switch for the lamp in the corner which bathes the room in a warm glow.

By its light, John can see that Sherlock's face is beaded with sweat and his brows are knit together in some sort of exquisite pain. Yet the other man obviously isn't awake. A nightmare, then. John has had enough of them to know the symptoms only too well.

'John... don't. _Please_. Don't leave.'

Unlike earlier Sherlock's words are crystal clear. John blinks. Sherlock is dreaming about him? Having a nightmare about him leaving? He is momentarily stunned and then his features soften. Hastily he crosses to his friend's side and kneels beside the sofa. Carefully he runs his fingers through Sherlock's sweat-dampened hair.

'Sherlock? It's okay, you're fine.'

The younger man doesn't wake but after a few minutes of patient hair-stroking he stops talking and after another minute or so the whimpers stop as well. John gentles him back into sleep and as Sherlock's breathing evens out again his hand stills its movements in Sherlock's curls. It might just be the fever talking but perhaps... just perhaps Sherlock had been telling the truth earlier. Perhaps he does mean something to the detective after all. The knowledge doesn't melt his icy anger but it does begin to chip away at it, much like a tiny pickaxe on a tremendous glacier.


	4. Distance

**Chapter Four**

_**Distance**_

The next morning Sherlock seems to be feeling better. He is sitting up on the sofa, minus his blanket this time, and although the spots of colour are still in his cheeks they are not as vivid as they were. His coughing is still bad but he now seems able to form coherent sentences. John checks all his vitals carefully and proclaims him almost well.

'Well, it's not as if I'm going to be leaping off the sofa to do anything exciting is it?' Sherlock grumbles, cradling the mug of tea John made in his hands. 'After all, I imagine options are limited when one's supposed to be dead. God I hope Mycroft hurries up. This inertia is driving me mad.'

'You're still not well, Sherlock,' John cautions, sitting down with his own mug of tea. 'Inertia is what you're _supposed_ to do.'

'Who carries a knife in Paris in this day and age anyway?' Sherlock continues stridently. 'I mean, apart from youths and other hopeless cases obviously. But one of the division leaders of an international crime rig? One would have hoped for something more elegant.'

John sighs. 'Sherlock, there are so many things wrong with that statement I can hardly even... are you actually telling me you'd have preferred to get shot or something?'

'You can't deny a gun beats a knife. Although, for real sophistication, I would have gone for something like a garotte. Now _that_ has style.'

'You should know, you've been on the receiving end of one more than once,' John counters wryly before placing his tea carefully down. 'Are we actually going to talk today?'

The atmosphere changes abruptly. Sherlock's eyes shutter immediately and he hunches into the sofa. 'I don't want to push you, John. I know you said you needed time.'

John pauses for a second, choosing his words carefully. 'I do need time, Sherlock. But that doesn't mean that if something's really wrong you shouldn't feel like you can't contact me. I mean, Jesus! If that injury had gone untreated much longer you...' he trails off, unable to voice the end of his sentence. _You could have died. Again_. Sherlock's pale eyes narrow, as if he has figured out exactly what John was going to say. _Of course he did. That's what he does._ The detective leans forward a little on the sofa, staring at John intently.

'Listen to me, John. I am truly sorry for what I did to you. I know it caused you a great deal of pain. But I had no choice. It was you or me.' He pauses and then amends his statement. 'You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade or me. I had to die so you could live. And I knew that if things went as I planned that I wouldn't actually die and may be able to return to you someday. Whereas if I hadn't jumped you and the other two would be truly dead. Do you see, John?' His gaze rakes over John's face earnestly. 'I jumped off that building because that was the only way I could come back to you. That thought is what kept me going all these years. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing...' a dark mist drops over his eyes for a moment and he drops his gaze to the carpet. He is silent so long that John thinks he has finished but then he speaks again, in a voice much softer than before. 'You were my light. You always have been. I was in terrible situations, I did terrible things, but knowing that I was doing them to keep you safe, that made it bearable.'

It seems he is finished for real this time. John is aware of the tears pricking at the back of his eyes but so far they haven't fallen. Quickly he rubs his face. They sit in silence for a long time.

XXXXXXXXXX

Gradually things go back to some semblance of normality. After debating with himself for awhile John agrees to move back into Baker Street. He doesn't even know why he questioned himself over the decision really. Surely it was a foregone conclusion? Sherlock has returned, therefore he must be where the detective is. He was a fool to think that it could have turned out differently.

Besides, Sherlock needs him. At least for the next few days.

'I think your body was running on pure adrenaline for the last week or so,' John tells him the day after their talk, placing a bowl of toast and some eggs down in front of the detective. 'When you got back it simply crashed.'

'That's just typical,' Sherlock grouches, picking at the toast. 'This is why the body is just transport. My mind has never let me down like this.'

'Your _transport_ wouldn't let you down if you took proper care of it,' John returns, smiling slightly at the easy familiarity of the argument.

But as much as things are back to normal on the outside, both men are aware there is still a simmering tension just below the surface. It's evident in the way that John becomes slightly anxious if Sherlock leaves the apartment alone for any length of time. It's in the way Sherlock's eyes turn shuttered and blank every so often. And it's in the nightmares which both have almost every night in their separate bedrooms.

This is how they are, a few days after their talk. Sherlock, much against his will, is on the phone to Mycroft.

'Tell me you've made progress, Mycroft. Being cooped up like this is driving me up the wall. I need _action_!' John cannot hear Mycroft's reply from his position across the room but it is clear that it's not to Sherlock's taste, as the other man scowls deeply before disconnecting the call and throwing his phone onto the sofa.

'God, this is _insufferable_,' Sherlock groans, sinking onto the cushions next to his phone and rubbing at his temples. John is tempted to reply that Sherlock is merely having a taste of what he had to suffer through for three years but manages to hold his tongue. 'I feel like my mind is trying to claw itself to pieces. Do something, John!'

'Do what, exactly?' John asks calmly, although he is starting to feel the familiar stirrings of irritation.

'Anything! Call Lestrade and have him run some cold cases over.'

John fixes Sherlock with a gimlet stare. 'You haven't even told Lestrade you're alive, Sherlock. Don't you think you should do him that courtesy before demanding cases off him? After all, he apparently means something to you. He's one of the three people you chucked yourself off St Bart's for.'

Sherlock eyes flicker over John's face. He has not missed the subtle emphasis the other man put on the word _apparently_ and he notices the doctor's fingers are clenching and relaxing repeatedly on the arm of his chair.

'Are you ever going to forgive me, John?' he asks gravely. John stares back at him for a moment.

'I want to, Sherlock. God, I want to. I just don't know if I can.'

XXXXXXXXXX

A week later John is sitting in the living room in a pool of sunshine reading the paper when Sherlock enters in a state of high excitement.

'It's happening, John! Mycroft finally finished putting together all the evidence which proves beyond any doubt that Richard Brook was a fraud and Moriarty was real. He's presenting it to the press this afternoon. I have to be at the Diogynes Club at two o'clock.' John stands up, smiling.

'That's great, Sherlock. Really great.' He pauses, unsure what to do next, Christ when did this _awkwardness_ come between them? Sherlock solves the problem for him by crossing the room and wrapping John in his arms. John remains stiff for a moment but gradually allows himself to relax. As he feels the heat from Sherlock's body and the detective's heart thrumming against his chest a strange tugging sensation starts up in his gut. Something quivery, almost anxious. He ignores it and tentatively pats Sherlock on the back a few times. The detective still feels too thin under his hands but he has noticed that he has started to put on a bit of weight. In fact, John has made Sherlock watching almost into an art form in the past few days. Unable to rid himself of the hideous niggling anxiety that it might be the last time he sees the detective he has found himself focusing on him whenever they are in the same room, taking in everything about him. Perhaps some of this behaviour is coming from the terrifying experiences he had when he realised he was forgetting what Sherlock looked like. He notices everything now. The way Sherlock's frame looks less angular and more muscular whenever he is clad in his clinging blue dressing-gown. The way his eyes change colour depending on his mood, ranging from a misty green to a piercing light gray. He's noticed that Sherlock has a habit of tugging on one of his curls whenever he's confused or annoyed and that there is a clear difference between his false smile and his genuine smile. His false smile is easy and smooth. However when he smiles at something John has said or done, one half of his mouth pulls upwards before the other as if the sign of merriment is being drawn from him at great personal cost.

Locked in his best friend's arms, John now thinks of the changes in behaviour he has seen in Sherlock. Before the Incident, Sherlock would never have even thought of initiating a full-blown hug with anyone, even John. His time away has made him sharper, more hardened in many ways but with John, and to some extent Mrs Hudson, he has paradoxically become completely the opposite. Since his return, John has had more apologies from Sherlock than he had in the years he'd known him before. Sherlock seems more open, more anxious to please. No longer does John have to nag him to buy milk. He only has to mention that they're running low and the next thing he knows, there's a new pint in the fridge.

Lost in his thoughts, John is startled when Sherlock abruptly steps away from him. His expression is blank but for a moment John thinks he sees a glimmer of hurt shining in those expressive eyes. It is gone so quickly that he is sure he imagined it.

'You'd better get dressed,' John says, clearing his throat and rubbing at his neck awkwardly. 'Can't be out seeing the press in your dressing gown.'

'Naturally I will change John,' Sherlock returns smoothly. 'I was, however, rather hoping that you would accompany me.'

For just a few seconds a refusal is on the tip of John's tongue. And it is this which fully brings home to him how awkward things truly are between them. Before Sherlock's Fall, John wouldn't have thought twice about accompanying Sherlock to something like this, if he didn't have work.

Sherlock can evidently read John's hesitation in his eyes. He sighs and turns away. John coughs abruptly.

'Sherlock?' The detective turns and John instantly notices that the excitement and happiness that was present when Sherlock had entered the room is now very evidently absent. 'Course I'll come.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'That concludes the presentation. The gentlemen here present are now available for questions from the press lasting no longer than ten minutes.'

The man in the suit, John still doesn't know who he is, sits down shuffling his papers self-importantly. Instantly hands are waving in the air, vying for attention. The besuited man points at one who rises to his feet.

'Sherlock, how long had you known James Moriarty before your alleged death?'

Sherlock fixes the man with a stony glare and John sighs inwardly. 'I specified exactly how long, and how I met, James Moriarty during his trial. If you wish to know the answer I suggest you look at that transcript.' The word _idiot_, although not said audibly, was none the less present.

'How did you manage to fake your death?' was the next predictable question. Sherlock rolls

'I had some help from a person who shall remain unnamed. The rest is irrelevant.'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade, how did you find out Sherlock was alive? And how do you feel, now that his innocence is proven, about attempting to arrest him for his supposed crimes?'

Lestrade, looking deeply uncomfortable, clears his throat before speaking and glances at Sherlock. 'In response to your first question I actually only found out Sherlock was alive ten minutes before this press conference began. He shook my hand in the lobby, said it was good to see me again and strode off.' A buzz of laughter. 'In response to the second, all I will say at this time is that our department acted according to the information we had at the time.' He pauses and glances once again at Sherlock. 'I can say now that I deeply regret jumping to conclusions and always hoped his name would be cleared.'

'John, you made a public statement on your blog defending Sherlock. Did you always believe in him?'

'He tried to convince me otherwise,' John says hesitantly. 'And I will admit for a horrible moment before the... incident... there was a small part of me which doubted him. But only for about a second. I'd lived with the man for over a year and I knew, beyond a doubt, that he was completely and utterly genuine. As I said to him once,' he flicks an amused glance at the detective, 'no-one can fake being such an annoying dick all the time.' The laughter is louder this time and Sherlock rolls his eyes, but smiles slightly at John. His genuine smile.

The press conference lasts for another ten minutes before the man in the suit stands up and calls it to a close.

'Well that was tedious,' Sherlock remarks as they make their way into the lobby. John gapes at him.

'I thought you were looking forward to it!'

'I was looking forward to finally having my name cleared so I can go back to solving cases. Not standing in front of a room full of idiots with perhaps five braincells between them.'

'Right. Of course,' John says, shrugging. 'Where to now that you're officially alive then?'

'I need to have a word with Lestrade. Where is he anyway?'

'Having a meltdown somewhere? You should have warned him beforehand, you know.'

'No, this way was much more fun.' He catches the look on John's face and sighs. 'Not good?'

John doesn't even bother to respond, merely points in the direction of the Inspector who is just coming through the doors from the conference room. Sherlock strides over with John trailing behind.

'Lestrade! Just the man I wanted to see.'

'Says the man I never expected to see again,' Lestrade comments, still looking like he might be in shock.

'Yes, yes, can we move past all the _You were dead! _drivel please?' Sherlock snaps. 'I want to know if there's anything at the Yard I can help with. Anything at all.'

Lestrade rubs the back of his neck and seems to have trouble meeting Sherlock's eyes. 'Look mate, it's brilliant to have you back and everything but... I got in a lot of shit with the Chief three years ago for letting you on those crimescenes. That's what led to me having to arrest you for God's sake!'

'Well that and the fact that you allowed yourself to be swayed by lesser minds than your own. Namely Anderson and Donovan. But then the idea was seeded first by Moriarty so I suppose I can't blame you entirely.' Lestrade looks torn between whether he should be complimented or insulted and then decides on a neutral face.

'Cheers, I think, but listen Sherlock. Seriously, I can't have you on any crimescenes anymore. If I work at it I can maybe get you a consulting position on the official staff...'

'No, I can't be tied down Lestrade, you know that.'

'Well then, there's nothing I can do to help. Sorry mate.' He shifts his eyes to John and smiles. 'See you later John, yeah?'

'Sure,' John responds, eyeing Sherlock warily. The detective is staring after the Inspector's disappearing form and a muscle is twitching in his cheek. His lips are clenched tightly together. From years of living with the man, John is well aware of the danger signs and it seems like a tantrum of epic proportions is on the way.

Sure enough they have barely got back to the flat before Sherlock lets rip.

'After all I've done for that man, all I've done for the entirety of Scotland Yard, _this_ is how they repay me? Did they not see how the percentage of solved crimes dropped the _instant_ I stopped helping on their cases? The levels of pure, unadultered idiocy to be found in the modern police force is simply astonishing John!'

John settles for a neutral murmur and heads into the kitchen to boil the kettle. He has learnt that when Sherlock is in this kind of mood it is best to simply sit back and let him get it out of his system. In the living room he can hear Sherlock pacing and considers himself lucky that he hasn't started throwing things yet.

'How am I supposed to stop my mind rotting? I _need_ distractions John, my brain needs something to feed off to survive, otherwise it will simply eat itself to pieces.'

John finishes making the tea, carries the mugs into the living room and places them down on the table.

'Why don't you take Lestrade up on his offer then? You'd be able to go on cases that way.'

'John, you simply don't understand! I cannot be tied down to a desk job or something similarly inane and pointless. I need activity and action. At least when I was hunting down the Network I was never bored. I should have just stayed dead.'

The colour drains from John's face and he takes a step back. Sherlock seems, unusually for him, immediately aware of what he's said and clamps his mouth shut. John nods, fast, a couple of times and then heads for the door.

'John,' Sherlock calls warningly after him. 'John, that's not what I... John! Come back!'


	5. Drowning Sorrows

**Author's Note: Okay, so I tried to avoid doing an author's note as long as I could, but there are a few things I feel I need to say (bear with me, lol!) First off, thanks so much for the amazing responses to this fic. Sadly I really don't have time to reply to everybody individually but rest assured thanks will be given in the last chapter. Also, this fic will likely be heading towards an 'M' rating soon. I will let you know when! Any ideas as to where people want this fic to go is more than welcome. I have already written the majority of it, but extra input is always gratefully received! Basically, keep doing what you're doing, reading and reviewing! Thanks to everyone. Enough of my blather, onto the chapter!**

**Chapter Five**

_**Drowning Sorrows**_

The moment John leaves Sherlock darts over to the window to peer out. Sure enough the door to the building soon slams shut with a reverberating _bang_ and he sees the doctor stride off down the street. He doesn't look back.

Stupid. How could he have been so _stupid_? Just when John was beginning to get used to him being back he goes and says something like that. It isn't often Sherlock makes a mistake and he attributes this one to his admittedly sketchy knowledge and experience of the murky world of human feelings.

_John. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Come back. SH_

There's no reply. He hadn't really expected one. What is he supposed to do now? There's no cases for him to work on. He supposes he could always fiddle around with his current experiment but right at this minute he really doesn't feel like recording the various different stages of blood coagulation. All he can think of is John. John, his best friend, who he has been steadily driving away ever since he returned. He isn't even sure how he's doing it, which is the worst part. If he knew what he was doing wrong he could make an attempt to rectify the situation. As it is the escalating tension between them is fogging his mind and making him virtually plebian in his utter inability to focus on anything else. The experiment with the blood is a prime example.

With John gone he feels himself slipping back into that darkness, the darkness which he had to endure for three years without his blogger by his side. Three years without John's warm smile and solid comforting presence. Three years without being told he was amazing, an idiot, brilliant, an arsehole or incredible. Three years of killing and maiming, extorting and bribing, hiding and running all so he could someday return to the man who made it all worth it. Only when he did return the man didn't want him.

There are occasions when Sherlock tortures himself with thoughts of how he and John could possibly be something more than friends. That night at Angelo's for instance, he could have sworn John was interested in him. But, of course, he'd automatically shut his mind off from any possible involvement. He'd shot John down quite firmly. And, given his limited experience of romance and feelings, it is always entirely plausible that John _wasn't_ coming onto him at all, but was merely curious. To this day, Sherlock isn't sure. But there is a part of him which regrets not finding out. And now he'll never have the chance. It is looking more and more likely that John doesn't even wish to be his friend anymore let alone anything more.

He will give it another few weeks perhaps. If nothing changes by then he has a plan in mind. He will not make John move from Baker Street again. The man has gone through enough pain and upheaval on Sherlock's part without that. No, he has already contacted Mycroft and asked him to keep an eye out for cases far away from London. His mind rebels at the idea of contacting his brother, much less ask him for anything, but for John he will do it. And then Mycroft might be able to set him up with something even further away. Perhaps Canada. Where he won't be reminded of John. Where he won't be reminded of what he has lost.

XXXXXXXXXX

John spends the rest of the day in the pub until last orders are called. By that point he has forgotten how many pints he has drunk. He feels fine until he gets outside and then the fresh air makes him stagger so he has to lean against the fairly dirty wall of the pub for balance. Rooting through his pockets he realises he's spent all of his cash on drinks and he can't be bothered to find a machine just to get the money for a taxi. So he begins the walk back to Baker Street, weaving slightly unsteadily as he goes.

The key takes awhile to slot in, but eventually he manages it. Staggering up the stairs he can't decide through his alcohol fuzzed brain, whether he is happy or not that the light is still on in the living room of their flat. It shouldn't have surprised him really, Sherlock never sleeps.

'Sherlock! You awake? We need, we need to talk!'

'There's no need to shout, John, I'm right here.' John whirls around, almost falling over in the process, to peer at where Sherlock has just emerged from the kitchen. 'You're drunk.'

'Tha'ss very perceptive of you,' John says belligerently.

'The Norville Arms. The distinctive...'

'Yes, yes. We all know how goddamned _clever_ you are, Sherlock. Too clever to be hanging around with someone like me. Someone you don't even _trust_.' Although his words are slurred they are still perfectly understandable. Sherlock frowns.

'You should go to bed, John. Sleep it off.'

'You don't get to order me around, Sherlock! You, you gave up that right when you fucking threw you'self off Bart's.'

Sherlock closes his eyes. 'I'm not discussing this with you now, John. The alcohol has made you irritable and irrational, none of which are conduicive states for a reasonable talk.'

John stumbles a little bit closer. 'I'm not gonna pretend I understood wha' you just said, Sherlock, but you put me through _hell_ for three years! You, you owe me a talk.'

'Yes, and we will, but when you are sober,' Sherlock responds, rubbing at his temples and turning away. 'Goodnight, John.'

'Don't walk away from me, Sherlock!' John crosses the distance between them and grasps Sherlock's wrist, swinging the detective around to face him. Sherlock's face is tight with barely concealed anguish. ''S time for you to stop being so selfish and think of others for a change.'

Sherlock shuts his eyes for a long moment and then re-opens them, staring coolly at John. 'I have already tried to explain myself to you, John. There is not much more to say and you know how I hate repetition.' John's bloodshot eyes narrow and he begins to walk Sherlock backwards until the other man has his back against the living room wall.

'Am I a joke to you, Sherlock? Do I mean anything or am I just... just some mindless little man who follows you about and obeys your every word?'

'Don't be so stupid, John.'

'Oh yes!' John shouts. 'Stupid! That's what I am, that's what everyone is compared to you, right? Nobody can compete with your massive intellect!'

'I am not having this conversation with you now,' Sherlock repeats, attempting to get away from the wall. However, drunk though he is, John's grip is strong and Sherlock soon gives up. 'Let me go. We'll talk in the morning.'

'Like hell we will! We won't talk! We'll just be all British and pretend like everything is just fine. I'll drink my tea and you'll be insufferable and everything will be nice and _normal_,' John spits.

'I am sorry for what I said earlier,' Sherlock says carefully. 'I realise that was an error on my part. I did not mean it and I know it must have been hurtful for you. Which is presumably why you thought it would be a good idea to go to the nearest pub and get drunk out of your skull.'

John feels as though he is several different John Watsons at this point. Front and centre there is John _I-Feel-Like-I-Could-Kill-Sherlock-Right-Now_ Watson. Trailing in last place and whimpering slightly is John _I'm-Drunk-And-Stupid-And-Should-Really-Go-To-Bed_ Watson. And in a surprise position at second and catching up fast to _I-Feel-Like-I-Could-Kill-Sherlock-Right-Now_ is _Sherlock-Really-Is-A-Very-Attractive-Man_. It is this part of John which is focusing on the way Sherlock's lips are moving and wondering how it would feel if he just leant up and kissed them.

'John? Are you even listening to me?'

'Shut up, Sherlock,' John says and roughly pulls the detective down towards him. Their lips meet with a crash and Sherlock stifles a pained grunt. John kisses Sherlock aggressively, barely aware that the detective's arms are hanging by his sides, limp with shock. John bites and sucks at Sherlock's lower lip until gradually the detective opens his mouth, allowing John in. The doctor takes the opportunity immediately, his tongue delving to explore. Sherlock's arms regain some life and tentatively reach up to settle lightly on John's waist, his fingers fisting gently into the fabric of John's jacket.

It is at about this point that _I'm-Drunk-And-Stupid-And-Should-Really-Go-To-Bed_ makes a surprise bid for first place. John stumbles away from Sherlock, suddenly aware of what he's doing. He was kissing Sherlock. Actually kissing him after shouting and saying God-Knows-What. Kissing him while drunk. This is not good.

'I... I'm going to bed,' John mumbles, unable to meet that flickering gaze which he knows is roving all over him, trying to deduce, trying to understand. 'Sorry, I... that shouldn't have happened. I'm...' He trails off and shuffles to the door, very deliberately not looking back.

Sherlock watches John go and one finger drifts upwards to stroke unconciously across his lips.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Ah, John, good you're up. We can talk now if you still want to?' Sherlock follows John's progress into the kitchen and watches as the doctor starts making tea.

'God no, Sherlock, no. No I don't want to talk. Just leave me alone will you? I've got a killer hangover.'

Sherlock frowns and taps his fingers against the counter agitatedly. 'But last night you seemed quite adamant you wanted to talk, and I think we need to.'

'Honestly?' John turns to face him, his features somehow crumpled and tired. 'I hardly remember anything of last night. I think I must have had upwards of eight pints or something. I remember leaving the pub and that's about it. So if you said I wanted to talk, I believe you, I'm just saying that I don't want to now, okay?'

Sherlock fidgets by the counter, gnawing on his lip anxiously. 'You... you don't remember _anything_ about last night?'

'Nothing,' John groans and takes his tea into the living room where he collapses into his chair and stares vacantly straight in front of him.

Sherlock hovers for a minute or two before abruptly spinning around and darting off to his room. Once there he paces up and down, his mind whirring and working so fast he hardly has time to catch the thoughts which flash through it. A few however are frequent enough for him to catch.

_John doesn't remember._

_John was drunk._

_It meant nothing to him._

_I am holding him back from a normal life._

_I am selfish._

_He deserves better._

Sherlock stops suddenly, his hands flying to his hair, fingertips tugging at the roots so that it is bordering on painful. He has been so blind, so obtuse. Perhaps he can be excused a little, after all feelings are really not his area of expertise, but he should have observed all the signs. John would do better without him. Coming back was a mistake. Things are different between them; awkward. He should go.

He seizes his phone from the nightstand and, rather than sending a text, he scrolls through his contacts until he finds the one he hardly ever uses of his own volition. Pressing the phone to his ear he waits. It rings precisely three times before it's picked up.

'Brother. What an unexpected pleasure.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'Sherlock? I'm off out, we need some actual food.' He's not expecting a reply and so is taken aback when Sherlock enters the living room just as he is pulling on his jacket. The way the detective is looking at him makes him a little nervous. It's a strange, intense mixture of sadness, resolve and desperation. 'Sherlock? You alright?'

'I'm fine,' Sherlock manages, taking a few steps closer. 'I probably won't be here when you get back.'

John raises an eyebrow as he pulls on one of his trainers. 'Oh? Have you managed to get a case?'

Sherlock squirms, and if John hadn't been in such a hurry to get to the shops before they closed, he would have examined this closer.

'Of a sort,' he replies eventually. John nods, yanking on his other shoe and patting his jeans pocket to make sure he has his wallet.

'Right. Well, I'll see you when I see you then.'

Sherlock doesn't respond and John turns to make his way down the stairs.

'John?'

'Mmm?'

'Are you _sure_ you don't remember anything about last night?'

'Jesus Sherlock, _no_, okay? Why? Did I do something embarrassing?'

Sherlock blinks slowly. 'No. No, it's fine.'

He watches as John makes his way down the street and then takes his phone from his pocket.

_I've decided. SH_ He doesn't elaborate. He may be miserable but he can still get a petty kind of happiness from needling his brother. Sure enough after a couple of seconds his phone rings.

'Enigmatical as always,' Mycroft drawls in his ear. 'Would you care to tell me _what_ you've decided?' The faint stab of pleasure Sherlock had felt at putting his brother to the trouble of picking up his phone and ringing disappears.

'Yes,' he says dully. 'Find me a case anywhere while you set things up. I expect to be in Canada by the end of the week.'

'Anywhere?' Mycroft asks.

'Anywhere that's not London,' Sherlock responds. 'If I'm going to do this I need to do it now before I lose my resolve.'

'And you're sure you're making the right decision?'

'It's the right decision for John. I had hoped...' He trails off frustrated. 'Me being back in his life is only holding him back. Hopefully once I'm gone he'll be able to move on. At least he'll know I'm alive.' He sighs. 'We've been growing apart for weeks now. He has given me every indication that he is tired of my presence. Last night was just the final straw.' There is a small pause before Mycroft speaks again.

'As it happens there's a case which has caught my attention in Bath.'

'_Bath_?'

'Yes, Sherlock, it is a place not somewhere in outer space. You did say anywhere.'

'I suppose I did,' Sherlock mutters, tugging at his hair distractedly. 'Is the case interesting at least?'

'You did not specify interesting.'

'Fine. What is it then? A cow's got stuck up a tree and they can't work out how to get it down?'

'For your information Bath is a small city and less than ten miles away from Bristol which is considerably bigger. For all that it is situated in a rural...'

'Yes, yes, you can spare me the tourist brochure spiel. Bath it is, then. And Mycroft?'

'Yes?'

'Don't you dare tell John. Not that he'll ask. But if he does, do not tell him, do you understand? Promise me.'

'I understand you completely, dear brother. I promise. And for your information, I think you'll find the case to be very interesting indeed. Why else would it have caught my attention?'

Sherlock scoffs and hangs up, but internally he feels a mild frission of excitement. It's true after all, nothing but an interesting case would have attracted Mycroft. This could be just the thing he needs to put John and his life in London behind him.

Walking slowly he goes to his bedroom and heaves the already packed suitcase out from under the bed. He has been prepared for this eventuality for some days now but if he is honest he did not expect it to come so soon.

He finds himself looking at items and furniture in the flat, cataloguing and memorising. This is his bedroom with its sparse decoration and poster of the periodic table. This is John's room, the bed made in a military fashion, clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe, shoes lined up under the desk, everything permeated with that vaguely spicy, masculine scent he associates with the doctor.

This is the living room, the hub of their lives. John's armchair and Sherlock's sofa. The faded Union Jack cushion which still has an imprint of John's lower back. John's laptop idling on the coffee table, the little light blinking on and off, the fan whirring lazily. Bookshelves stuffed with all sorts of volumes, ranging from the factual theorems of criminals Sherlock likes to read to the ecletic range of fiction novels John enjoys. His restless gaze moves to the kitchen with its scattering of petri dishes and testubes, its microscope and slides. John's kettle, sitting dormant on the counter. There is the bowl John keeps on the side for all the used teabags. Sherlock takes it all in, one hand holding tight to the handle of his suitcase. He has to leave all this behind. It will be better for both of them, in the long run. His capitulation to feeling with regards to John Watson has been his undoing, as he always knew it would be. He cannot face causing the doctor anymore pain, even though it may fracture what little heart he has to leave.

A note. He should leave John something. It wouldn't be fair to go without letting John know he is healthy and fine and... alive. Not a voicemail or a text. Neither would be sufficient.

After hunting for awhile he finds a pad of paper and a pen and his cursive handwriting begins filling the page.

_Dear John_

_That sounds like an old war letter doesn't it? And I suppose it is somewhat accurate in that I am leaving. _

_It has become apparent to me over the last few weeks that our current living arrangement is not working. __**I do not understand**__ I know I am mostly to blame for all that has gone wrong between us. And please, do not insult my intelligence by pretending you don't know what I'm talking about. My leaving and feigning death has hurt you irrevocably. I cannot do anything to change that and it's obvious that whatever I say or do will not help. __**I had a wish**__ I'd hoped we could move past it but it appears the ever-damnable world of __feelings__ will out. _

_I hope that I am at last doing the selfless thing. I want you to be happy, __**and if a dull wife and two children and a dog is**__ You deserve a chance at a normal life, John. I cannot give you that. I never could. You deserve much more than me. __**There are many things I wish to say to**__ I said to you once that I do not have friends. That I just have one. That remains true, for me at least. You are my best friend and always will be._

_I suppose, my dear John, what I am trying to say is that I am sorry. If I had known it would turn out this way I would have found some way to let you know I was alive. Please know that I only did it because you are the most important person in my life and I genuinely believed I was protecting you. Once again, you have my deepest apologies._

_Yours, always truly_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_P.S. Better you are alive hating me than dead liking me._

Sherlock studies the note now lying on the kitchen table. It has far more crossings-out than he would like, evidence of when his heart ran away with him, but overall it will do. He doesn't have time to amend it, John will be back from the shops in approximately twenty minutes and he has to be gone.

He places the note on the counter by the kettle, where John will be sure to see it, casts one last look at 221B, and then clatters down the stairs to the waiting taxi.

'Paddington Station?' the driver asks as he slides into the back seat.

'Yes. Quick as you can.'

The car pulls out and Sherlock rests his head against the window. It is dawning on him that he is leaving John behind for the second time but this feels much worse than the first. When he'd jumped off St Bart's and embarked on his dark journey around the world, he'd had the hope that he could come back to John, back to his blogger. Now, however, he knows that he is leaving John for good. The doctor has made it clear that he's better off without Sherlock and that means that Sherlock has to stay away, no matter how miserable it will make him. Before he'd met John Watson, Sherlock had been utterly convinced that the Work was enough to satisfy him, enough to keep him perfectly contented.

The Work is still important but in order for Sherlock to be happy, in order for him to function to his maximum potential, he needs John Watson. That is what this comes down to. He needs John and John doesn't need him. His hand clenches in the wool of his coat, an irrational anger spiking through him. He used to be an island, detached and aloof. Now an ordinary army-doctor has, quite effortlessly, turned him into some sort of boggy swamp, beset by tangled feelings and emotions. And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that Sherlock let him.

His dark mood lasts until he is on the train and speeding west. An elderly woman attempts to sit down beside him.

'That seat is taken,' he snaps and stares at her pointedly until she tuts under her breath and moves off down the carriage. As he watches London disappear, to be replaced by green fields and hedgerows, he slumps back and closes his eyes.

**A quick note – the bits in the note highlighted in bold are meant to be crossed out but I haven't figured out how to get that formatted properly for ff! xxx**


	6. A Case Begins

**Chapter Six**

_**A Case Begins**_

As Sherlock reaches Paddington, John returns to Baker Street, a bag of groceries swinging from each hand. The walk to the shops and back has cleared his head and gone some way to getting rid of his hangover.

He feels bad about snapping at Sherlock earlier. His head had been killing him and Sherlock's badgering about wanting to talk had done nothing to improve his temper. He feels more up to it now, though. Once he has settled himself in his chair with a mug of tea, Sherlock can talk to his heart's content.

'I'm back!' he calls, more for form's sake than anything else. Sherlock would have calculated exactly how long it'd take for him to get to the shops and back.

The living room is empty and there's no sound from the kitchen so he assumes Sherlock is either in his bedroom or has gone out for some reason.

He moves into the kitchen and dumps the bags on the central island which is blessedly, and unusully, free of any experiments. Moving on autopilot he takes two mugs from the cupboard, plops the teabags into them and then moves over to the kettle.

He locks in place, his hand frozen in mid-air. He recognises Sherlock's handwriting instantly, although he's only seen it a handful of times. The detective is a true product of the digital age, always preferring to text or email rather than write anything down by hand. The cursive scrawl decorating the paper sets a coil of anxiety deep in his gut.

He doesn't know how long he is frozen but eventually he forces himself to gather up the note. He stumbles into the living room and sits down in his chair, his eyes already scanning the words.

It takes a minute for him to read the note through and a few more for it to make sense. When it does he scrabbles for his phone in his pocket, the sheet of paper dropping to the floor.

'Mycroft?'

'My dear doctor, how are you?'

'Cut the crap, where is he?'

'You mean my brother, I presume?'

'Of course Sherlock, who else? Where is he?'

'I haven't the foggiest idea,' Mycroft drawls.

'You know where he is,' John snaps, immediately sensing the lie in Mycroft's words. And if Mycroft Holmes, even smarter than his younger brother, allows that there must be a reason for it.

'Yes, fine, I do,' Mycroft responds sounding amused by the entire conversation. 'But he made me promise not to tell you.'

'He...' John makes a muted noise of frustration and kicks at the leg of his chair. 'That doesn't matter!'

'On the contrary,' Mycroft says, his tone now almost offended. 'When I make somebody a promise, I keep it. I am a man of my word after all.'

'So you're saying you won't help me,' John mutters, all at once utterly drained.

'I cannot help you with that particular issue, no. But you lived with Sherlock for years, John. Presumbly you know him pretty well. Apply that knowledge, if you really wish to find him.'

'If Sherlock doesn't want to be found, then I don't have a chance,' John snaps.

'As you like.'

'Hang on, what did you mean _that particular issue_?'

Mycroft sounds positively gleeful as he responds. 'I made my brother a promise not to tell you his whereabouts. But I have in my possession a little something which might make it clear to you _why_ he left.'

'What are you talking about?' John asks, his tone slow and deliberate. There is a veiled menace there, a touch of steel.

'A certain videotape, my dear doctor. Tell me, do you want to remember what happened last night?'

'You've bugged our flat,' John says, realisation dawning.

'Just the living room. You know how I worry about Sherlock. I'll send a car. Five minutes, Doctor Watson.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'Stop,' John murmurs, feeling nausea rise in his throat. He is watching his onscreen self furiously kiss Sherlock. Sherlock's hands are fluttering awkwardly, as if he isn't entirely sure what to do with them. From what John can see of his face his expression is a mixture of confusion and fear. It is the fear which is making John feel ill. That and the slight pain which shows itself in the tightening of Sherlock's eyes. It is not a gentle kiss, nor is it loving. It is a drunken John pouring out his anger through misplaced desire.

'Do you understand why my brother left now?' Mycroft is no longer jovial and teasing. His expression is grave.

'Well, yes, I suppose so. I mean, I wasn't exactly gentle. But Mycroft, it was just a kiss!' Mycroft's tone is icy as he replies.

'How many kisses do you think Sherlock's had?' John gazes blankly at him.

'How am I supposed to know?'

'As always you are awfully slow on the uptake. Think about it for a minute. You were his first flatmate. His first colleague. His first _friend_. How many kisses do you think he has had?'

Slowly the colour drains from John's face. 'You mean...?' He glances back at where the image on the screen has been paused. 'But that _can't_ have been his first.'

'My brother, as you know, has always had trouble connecting with people. The Work has always been his first and only concern. He had no desire to engage in what he believed to be pointless relationships or even one-night-stands.' There is a faint tinge of pride to Mycroft's words.

Slowly, John's head sinks into his hands, his fingertips massaging his temples. There is no possible way this situation could be any worse. He'd stolen Sherlock's first kiss. He'd scared Sherlock. He'd ignored Sherlock's pleas for them to talk. He'd hit, shouted and insulted him. And now Sherlock had left, and quite rightly so. All he'd ever tried to do was protect John, albeit in a rather twisted and uniquely Sherlock fashion. And John had thrown it all back in his face. He'd treated Sherlock abominably.

'You're really not going to tell me where he is, are you?' John mutters eventually, his head still cradled in his hands.

'No,' Mycroft responds concisely. 'But I do believe that you could work it out yourself. If you still want to, that is.' These last words are shrewd and calculating. John looks up tiredly.

'Perhaps it is better this way. That video... how could I have treated him like that? I know I was drunk, but that's no excuse.'

'Don't blame yourself for all of this, John,' Mycroft says gravely. 'Sherlock is culpable too.'

'Yes, but at least when he hurt me it was for a good reason. I hate that he did that to me, and I hate feeling as though he doesn't trust me but I know he cares. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't.' Softly he murmurs. 'I've ruined everything. For three years I prayed for him to return and when he did I cocked it all up.'

'Not _all_ of it,' Mycroft responds, tapping a pen against his pad of paper.

'How can you say that? How can you ever imagine that he'll _ever_ want to see me again? And shouldn't you be... I don't know... tearing me apart or something? For hurting your little brother?'

'The thought had crossed my mind,' Mycroft says wryly, raising an eyebrow, 'but I decided it would ultimately be pointless. Besides, Sherlock would be furious with me.' Mycroft leans forward over his desk, pinning John to his seat with a pale-blue stare. 'Sherlock cares for you, John.' He gestures briefly at the stilled image on the screen. 'You've been so focused on _your_ actions that you're ignoring his. When you kissed him he attempted to respond. His efforts were clumsy and inexperienced but he was _reciprocating_. Sherlock is attracted to you, just as you are to him.'

John's mouth opens to voice an immediate denial but something in Mycroft's expression forbids him from speaking. Instead he settles for staring at the frozen image on the screen. Sherlock's hands are resting lightly on his waist. His posture may be stiff, a testament to his shock, but he isn't pulling away.

'Oh Jesus Christ, that makes it even worse.'

Mycroft cocks his head quizzically. 'Why?'

'Because... he...' John splutters before falling silent. It should be obvious! If Mycroft is correct and Sherlock is attracted to him, that's pretty momentous for the consulting detective. And John had stolen his first kiss and then proceeded to forget all about it. He can't even begin to imagine how hurt Sherlock must have been.

'_John?'_

'_Mmm?'_

'_Are you _sure_ you don't remember anything about last night?'_

'_Jesus Sherlock, _no_, okay? Why? Did I do something embarrassing?'_

'_No. No, it's fine.'_

Shit.

'You _are_ in love with my brother aren't you, Doctor Watson?' Mycroft asks gently. John sweeps a hand over his eyes suddenly sick and tired of all the denials he has been uttering over the past few years.

'Fine. Yes. I'm in love with Sherlock. And that just makes how I've treated him a million times worse. How am I supposed to face him after everything that's happened between us? He won't even want to see me.'

'I have seen your bravery firsthand many times, John. Use that bravery now.'

This is so much like what Sherlock said to him all those weeks ago when he'd turned up at John's flat that it's too much for John to stand. Abruptly he buries his face in his hands and sobs.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock stands in the middle of the ridiculously elaborate sitting room and sighs heavily. Of course Mycroft would have booked him a suite of rooms in the Royal Crescent Hotel and _of course_ it would have to be the best suite money can buy. He frowns as his gaze roves over the decoration. What possible use is a two foot high vase of flowers going to be to anyone? There are a couple of fine-boned chairs and a matching sofa ranged around an elegant coffee table. Off to the right there is a bathroom which is bigger than the living room in 221B and to the left is a bedroom with a bed which surely would not have looked out of place in a palace.

'Ridiculous,' Sherlock mutters to himself as he gloomily shuts the heavy swathes of rich red velvet which pass as curtains and moves into the bedroom. Stripping to his boxers he sets the alarm on his phone for seven in the morning. He probably won't sleep, but with no experiments on hand, and no violin, he has nothing to distract his ever racing mind. Nothing to distract him from the loss of John.

A constant dull ache has already set up root somewhere in his chest and he has a suspicion that it started the moment the taxi pulled away from Baker Street. It feels like whatever is connecting him to his blogger is being put under considerable strain.

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, occasionally reaching out to check his phone. There have been no new messages from John since he arrived in Bath. His journey on the train was interrupted by the chiming of an incoming text almost every five minutes.

_Sherlock, come back. JW_

_You haven't really gone have you? This is one of your pranks. JW_

_You're a colossal prat, you know that right? JW_

_I'm ready to talk. JW_

_You'll hate anywhere that isn't London, you know you will. JW_

_Make sure you eat. Two full meals a day. At least. JW_

_I'm binning all your experiments. Really. JW_

_Alright, that was a lie. I'm not. I can't. JW_

_Please, Sherlock. Don't do this. I'm sorry. JW_

And since that last one? Nothing. Not a single message. So many times he has wavered in his resolve, his fingers hovering over the glowing letters on the phone's screen. How easy it would be for him to book a ticket back. But then everything would go back to how it was before, with John quietly resenting him. And he understands John's point of view perfectly. He did put the other man through absolute hell. He has acted so selfishly and cruelly in the past (the incident in Baskerville comes to mind), that he fully comprehends why John believes now is no different. It's like the boy who cried wolf, he thinks miserably. The one time he does something to protect John and it's too late. It's all too late. _I should have come back sooner_.

Now John is free. He may feel aggrieved at first but soon he will realise how much better off he is. Free to have a relationship, get married, pop out a couple of kids. Perhaps, far in the future, Sherlock could visit. He could be the odd family friend and try to teach John's children the art of deduction.

Burying his face in the pillow he watches the shadows dance across the carpet and tries to pretend that he's happy envisioning that scenario.

Much to his surprise he does manage to sleep and is woken by the insistent buzzing of his alarm as his phone vibrates across the wooden surface of the nightstand. A shaft of early morning sunlight is lancing through the gap in the curtains and he peers out at the view. He arrived so late last night that everything had been blanketed in darkness and he'd been so preoccupied with thinking of John in the taxi that he'd barely noticed the scenery flying past. He has to hand it to Mycroft, the view is spectacular. He'd heard of the Royal Crescent in Bath before, and had seen pictures of it, but the reality is truly breathtaking. _I'm sure John would love it here_.

He showers quickly and then flicks through his messages, finding the one from Mycroft which details where he is supposed to go and who he is supposed to see with regards to the case. Much to his displeasure he is forced to acknowledge that Mycroft is right. The case _is _interesting. A security guard at the Roman Baths found dead in the main pool. Well, half in and half out, according to reports. His lower half had been submerged in the naturally steaming water while his torso, arms and head had been on the stone side, as if he'd attempted to climb out and died halfway through.

He knows Mycroft has pulled a lot of strings to get him into this case and he is grateful. This is just what he needs to distract himself and get back to the person he was before John Watson entered his life. The Consulting Detective, unbothered by feelings and emotions, whose main focus in life is The Work.

Arriving at the police station in Manvers Street he is ushered into the Inspector in charge of the case's office.

'Sherlock Holmes, I presume?' the man says, his eyes narrowing, as he gets up to move around his desk and shake hands. 'Inspector Clyde. Can't say I understand why you're here. My superiors merely informed me that a...' he glances at a note on the desk, 'Consulting Detective is arriving and is to be given all possible assistance.' He frowns at Sherlock. 'What exactly does a Consulting Detective _do_? I've never heard of it.'

'You wouldn't,' Sherlock responds crisply. 'I'm the only one in the world. I invented the job. It means I assist the police when they are out of their depth.' He has to forcibly stop himself from adding _which is always_ onto the end of the sentence. Inspector Clyde frowns even deeper.

'We're quite capable here you know. We don't need some busybody from London interfering and telling us our business.' Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. Why, oh _why_, were people so stupid?

'I am not attached to the Metropolitan Police, or indeed, any police force. I assist on cases because it is something for my mind to occupy itself with and I have a deep interest in science and criminology. I am not interested in stealing your credit.' The Inspector bristles at Sherlock's snappish tone but does seem to relax slightly.

'You should probably meet the rest of the team, then,' he says heavily. 'Don't imagine they're going to be anymore pleased than I am, though.'

_Oh brilliant. Anderson and Donovan, the country bumpkin versions, here we come._

Sure enough it is no better than he expected. It's all familiar to him. The condescending looks, the loaded glances between themselves and finally the derision when he introduces himself.

'Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective.' He doesn't offer his hand and stands with his arms by his sides, his gaze already taking them in.

'What's a Consulting Detective when it's at home?' mutters a blonde man, his lips twisting into a sneer.

Sherlock responds as if addressing a rather backward child. 'It is a Detective who is available for Consultation. Although I can appreciate that was a bit too much for you to understand.'

'Why do we need him, sir?' another officer asks, turning to the Inspector while the blonde man flushes with anger. 'We're more than qualified to handle this.'

Inspector Clyde ignores Sherlock's mutter of _doubtful_. 'I have orders from on high, let's leave it at that.' He sighs deeply and throws a distasteful glare at Sherlock. 'Right, let's go visit the crimescene. I'll fill you in on the way.'


	7. The Guard in the Bath

**Chapter Seven**

_**The Guard in the Bath**_

In the police car on the way to the baths Sherlock flicks through the photos taken by the crimescene photographer.

The security guard is laying half in and half out of the main bath. On the left side of his head there is a wound which looks as if it has been inflicted by something blunt and heavy. What draws Sherlock's attention is the gash across the guard's throat, an injury so severe that it has almost severed the man's head from his shoulders. Also unusual is the writing on the stone walls surrounding the bath. The photographer has taken several close-up shots of it, a swirling, angry mass of crimson letters. It has already been established that it was written in the dead man's blood.

_Et abstulit me maledicam. Deos vitam et sanguinem sumendum sit._

'I curse him who has stolen from me. May his blood and his life be taken by the Gods,' Sherlock murmurs to himself, his eyes flickering across the image. Inspector Clyde looks faintly startled.

'You... understand Latin?'

'Amongst others,' Sherlock responds absently.

'Right,' the Inspector says, flicking a curious glance at Sherlock before carrying on. 'The victim is Austin Drake. We're going on the theory at the moment that the perp was somebody he knew. The words scribed on the wall seem highly personal. At the same time it would not be unthinkable to assume the killer also has some sort of obssession with Roman history. The location of the crime, the Latin on the wall, even the way Drake's throat was cut all seem to point to that conclusion.'

'It's dangerous to assume a concrete theory too soon into a case,' Sherlock snaps. 'I need to see the scene for myself but I am more than certain there are many small clues you have missed.'

'What?' the Inspector says, stung.

'Don't bother yourself about it, there almost always are. Normal people are so unobservant.'

'You're a bit of a freak, you know that?' Clyde says, a bitter edge to his voice. Sherlock gazes out of the window, his eyes shuttered.

'It's been said before.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Fortunately they arrive in the next few minutes and further conversation is cut short. Despite himself, Sherlock cannot help pausing to take in the splendour of the buildings around him. He is standing in the square, right at the entrance to the Baths, which of course has been cordoned off to the public. To his left is the magnificent Bath Abbey which towers to the sky, its pale stone radiant in the early sun. There are ornate stone arches across the square to his right which lead onto the main High Street. The Baths themselves are constructed of the same pale stone as everything else in the city and appear to gleam softly as he looks at them. Despite the sun the morning is cold and he tightens his scarf around his neck before ducking under the police tape and entering the dim foyer of the Baths.

_John would love it here_ he thinks before he can stop himself.

'This way,' Inspector Clyde shouts sharply, beckoning him over. They walk through to the main bath where the blonde sergeant and a couple of constables are waiting for them.

'Sherlock you met Sergeant Halworth back at the station didn't you?' he gestures to the blonde man and Sherlock nods curtly but does not offer any verbal response. 'And this is DC Wilkes and DC Sparkes. Right, introductions made. Where d'you want to start?' He addresses the question, with obvious reluctance, to Sherlock who spins around on the balls of his feet to approach the area where the body was found.

'With everything you missed, obviously,' he quips, although his heart isn't really in it. They trail after him and stand while he bends down to examine the area right by the side of the softly steaming water. Dimly he acknowledges that the pool is heated right from the centre of the earth, a natural hot spring. He has no idea how he knows this, it seems like exactly the sort of thing he would have learned and then instantly deleted. John would find it fascinating though. His mind summons up an image of the doctor with one of the guide machines clamped to his ear, wandering around with an expression of deepest interest on his face. He winces and turns his attention back to the stone, hoping that the others haven't seen that momentary weakness.

'The blow to the head was determined as the cause of death, is that correct?' he bites out, probing at the ground with long fingers.

'Yes, although the murder weapon hasn't been found yet. Not to worry though. There's still time.'

'Photos,' Sherlock snaps, holding out a hand without moving his gaze from the stones.

'What?'

'Are you deaf? I said photos. Now if not sooner.'

'Just who do you think you are?' Sergeant Halworth says, his eyes glittering with fury. 'We don't need you here, you're not even getting _paid_ for doing this. D'you get off on it or something?'

Sherlock closes his eyes as the familiar tirade washes over him. Once upon a time it would have been so much water off a duck's back. But lately he has got used to having a friend by his side, quietly supportive even if they didn't say anything. He feels the loss keenly.

'Photos,' he repeats, not looking up at them.

They are flung into his outstretched hand bad-temperedly and he flicks through them until he finds the one he is looking for. It's a close-up of the guard's temple and the wound which is apparently what killed him.

Sherlock doesn't doubt that it's what killed him. But the more he looks at it, the more obvious it is to him that they're wasting their time trying to find a murder weapon.

'You don't need to look for the weapon,' he states, not moving from his kneeling position near the base of one of the bath's main supporting columns.

'Why not?' Sergeant Halworth spits.

'Because it's been here all along, you were just all too blind to see it.'

'What on earth are you talking about?' Inspector Clyde says, irritation clear in his tone. Sherlock finally gets to his feet and turns to face them.

'Notice the unusual shape of the wound, I did immediately. It would have to be a fairly specific instrument to make that sort of mark. It's been made by some sort of hard object with a right-angled corner.'

'Could be a hammer,' DC Sparkes offers timidly, brushing her dark hair back from her eyes. 'The edge perhaps.'

'Wrong,' Sherlock says immediately. 'I already said the weapon is still here, do you see a hammer anywhere?' DC Sparkes falls silent. Her colleague, DC Wilkes lays a hand comfortingly on her shoulder and glares at Sherlock.

'Alright then, if you're so much smarter than all of us, where is it?' Sergeant Halworth demands, his handsome face flushing with anger and suspicion.

'Right here,' Sherlock says and lightly kicks at the stone column near the edge of the steaming water. The Inspector stares at him blankly.

'What?'

'Why can you not see? Why don't they train this country's law enforcers in the art of simply opening their eyes?' Sherlock groans. 'It's the column, obviously. Austin Drake was either pushed or fell, and in the process hit his head hard against the corner of this column. In fact...' trailing off, he takes a small bottle from one of his coat pockets, kneels back down and begins sprinkling powder on and around the base of the column. Inspector Clyde takes a step forward.

'What do you think you're doing? You can't just go around tampering with evidence!'

'I am not tampering, I am enhancing,' Sherlock snaps. 'Just watch.' Reluctantly the officers turn their attention to the light powder which has now started to fizz and hiss slightly.

'What _is_ that?' DC Wilkes asks, his eyes wide. Sherlock smirks.

'My own invention. This powder can identify any traces of blood within three seconds, even if the blood has been washed or wiped off a surface, or exposed to weather. However it only reacts if the blood was fairly recent, within the last twenty-four hours. It proves beyond any doubt that Austin Drake met his end by hitting his head on the corner of the column. He was then repositioned...' Sherlock traces his fingers around the edges of the powder trail, 'until the killer managed to get him half in and half out of the water. The murderer then cut his throat with a powerful left to right swipe once he was clear from where he actually died.' As if to prove his point, Sherlock upends the little bottle of powder once more, this time over where the guard's head and neck was found. Almost immediately the powder begins to react, this time over a much larger area.

'There was a fair amount of blood, but not much because Austrin Drake was, of course, already dead by this point. The killer then painted the message on the wall, cleaned up the mess and left. Although...' Sherlock pauses and flicks through the photos again, a frown creasing his brows.

'What?' Inspector Clyde prompts impatiently.

'Did it ever occur to you that the wound on the temple and then the cut throat were inflicted by two different people?'

'That's just wild speculation!' Sergeant Halworth scoffs. 'How could you possibly say that?'

'Only because the wound to the throat looks as if it were inflicted by a powerful, strong man, correct?'

'Yes,' Clyde responds warily, obviously wondering where Sherlock is going with this.

'And every evening, before the Baths close, the floors in the foyer are mopped I presume?'

'What are you talking about?' Halworth splutters, his eyes narrowing.

'Only that on my way in here I observed no less than three separate footprints. Austin Drake was a size nine shoe and on the night he was killed he was wearing Asics trainers with a very distinctive tread. In addition to his marks there are also two other prints. One could possibly be explained away by being one of the officers attached to the case as the tread is fairly generic and size ten is a common size amongst males. However the other was a shoe-size three. As far as I can see, DC Sparkes is the only female currently on this investigation and she wears a size six. Therefore, if the floors were cleaned on the night Drake died, we have an unknown female on the premises along with Drake. We've already established that the gash to the throat was inflicted by a man. Why was a woman present? Added to which there are several long blonde hairs on Drake's shirt which he was wearing when he died. This leads me to believe that he was in the presence of a woman soon before, if not when, he was killed. If they'd been there for long he would have noticed them and brushed them off.'

_Brilliant_ a phantom voice whispers near his ear. He flinches.

'This is just... this is ridiculous sir!' Halworth sneers.

'I have to agree,' DC Wilkes says, glaring at Sherlock. 'This isn't solid police-work, it's like Sergeant Halworth says, just speculation.'

'I'm not sure,' DC Sparkes responds pensively, biting her lip and staring at Sherlock. 'He may have something. Surely we should investigate these supposed footprints for ourselves?'

Five minutes later they are back in the foyer and Clyde is staring down at incredibly faint marks on the floor which any normal eye would surely have missed.

'How on earth did you detect these?'

'You see, but you do not observe. They are obvious for the trained eye to spot.'

'So now we have _two_ people present when Drake was murdered,' Clyde mutters, obviously attempting to keep up.

'Perhaps,' Sherlock murmurs distantly. 'I need to see Drake's house.'

'Flat,' DC Wilkes corrects automatically. 'He lived on the outskirts, near the Oval.'

'Fine. Get me in. I'll only need a few minutes.'

All the officers shift their eyes to stare at Inspector Clyde, who shrugs and looks faintly resigned.

'I'll get you the keys.'

'Sir!' Halworth protests, his face flushing once more.

'Not now, Halworth.' Clyde stalks away and returns in a few minutes with a set of keys encased in a plastic evidence bag. 'You do realise we can't let you go in alone?' he asks, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock snorts.

'Of course I do. Shall we go?' Without waiting for an answer he begins striding towards the exit, the others trailing behind.

It takes them about half an hour to make their way out of the centre of town. Sherlock remains silent for the drive, details of the case chasing themselves in his mind. There were three people in the Baths on the night Austin Drake was killed. Drake and an as yet unknown male and female. It's too much to hope that the blonde hairs have been preserved as evidence. It had taken even him awhile to spot them, hidden as they were by the relatively pale shirt Drake had been wearing at the time. But he had the footprints to go on and even now officers should be making copies of the prints at the scene. All he had to do was find something, _anything_ in Drake's flat to give him a lead. He is almost certain it was the woman who killed Drake. The two injuries are just too different to be inflicted by the same person. He frowns and steeples his fingers together. Current theory: the woman, possibly a girlfriend, meets with Drake in the Baths at night, reason as yet unclear. They were able to gain easy access due to Drake's job as a security guard there. There is an argument, things get out of control. The woman pushes Drake who falls and hits his head, instantly killing him. She gets scared and calls in somebody she knows who has the idea of making it look like the work of a pyschopath killer in order to draw attention from her. Which makes the words in Latin and the Roman-style cutting of the throat...

'A blind,' Sherlock mutters to himself, his eyes narrowing. 'Of course.'

'What?' Clyde asks from beside him, startled.

'Nothing. Yet.'

It is a theory, nothing more. He knows more than anybody the dangers of committing to one particular route. That risks missing, or deliberately ignoring, evidence which could point in a completely different direction. Better to be sure. And he will be, soon. Once he's seen the flat. And once the case has been solved he will go straight to the airport and Canada. Out of London. Out of England. Out of John Watson's life. Unconsciously his fingers clench tightly in the fabric of his smart suit trousers as the car pulls up to the curb.

XXXXXXXXXX

At about the same time Sherlock wakes up his first morning in Bath, John Watson bolts upright in his bed back in London. He is gasping for breath, beads of sweat have gathered at his temple and his eyes are wide. So far these could all be symptoms of one of his regular nightmares, however there is one glaring difference and that is the fierce erection throbbing between his legs.

It takes him a few minutes of panting before he begins to calm down enough to swing his legs out of bed. Of course it isn't the first time he's woken up from an obviously sexual dream with his cock aching. It is, however, the first time he's woken up aroused from a dream featuring a man, not a woman.

'Sherlock,' he groans, his head sinking forwards into his hands. At some point he will have to take care of his problem but for now he casts his mind back over what the dream had been about. The details are already vague and foggy but he can recall a few snippets to mind. Sherlock, arched backwards in John's arms as John lavishes open-mouthed kisses over his neck and throat. Sherlock moaning as John rubs at his raised nipples through the material of his shirt. He knows exactly what has brought all this on. The video Mycroft showed him of their ill-advised kiss in the living room.

Sighing he gets up and heads to the bathroom where he has a long shower and jerks off to thoughts of the dark-haired detective. When he finally finishes, dresses and heads downstairs to make his morning cup of tea the flat has never felt so empty. He has to find Sherlock. He cannot face this enforced isolation from him. He knows the situation is mostly of his own making, he was the one who drove Sherlock away, made him feel worthless and unwanted. Therefore he has to be the one who fixes it.

Swiping his thumb across the screen of his phone his fingers hover over the letters. Several texts come to mind but he dismisses them instantly. Raising the subject of their kiss in the living room with Sherlock in a text just doesn't sit right. That should be a discussion saved until they are face to face. He settles for a simple, honest message.

_I miss you. Come home. JW_

He stares at the screen for awhile, willing a response to appear but when none does he sighs and accesses his contact list. If Mycroft isn't going to help him find Sherlock he'll have to appeal to the few other people in the detective's life who may know how to find him.

'Lestrade? It's John. Listen, could I come over to yours? I have something important I want to ask you.'

Lestrade sounds sleepy, as if he has just woken up. 'Sure, not a problem.'

'Cheers, see you in about half an hour.' Without waiting another moment John shrugs into his jacket and trainers, clatters down the stairs and lets himself out. Within a few minutes he is ensconced in a taxi on his way to Lestrade's south London address.

XXXXXXXXXX

'So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?' Lestrade says as he follows John down the hallway of his house. It is clear he has just got out of bed, he's wearing loose pyjama trousers and a scruffy t-shirt. His feet are bare and his hair is ruffled.

'Sorry for just barging in on you like this,' John replies, entering the kitchen. 'I...' he stops, aware that his mouth has dropped open slightly. Sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen breakfast bar, her knees drawn up to her chest, is Molly Hooper. Like Lestrade she also appears to have just got out of bed, if the oversized t-shirt and bare legs are anything to go by. Her usually sleek long hair is slightly tangled and hangs in a long sheet down her back. She smiles slightly nervously at John.

'When did this happen?' The question comes out slightly harsher than he meant it to but his brain appears to have short-circuited. He knows that Lestrade has been feeling lonely since his wife left him but he would never have imagined Molly and the Detective Inspector together.

'We've been dating for a couple of weeks. We're having some fun and seeing where things go,' Lestrade says slightly defiantly. John recovers himself and allows a wide smile to cross his face.

'Well, the best of luck to you both. Honestly.' He turns to include Molly in his congratulations. 'I couldn't be happier for you guys.'

'Thank you,' Molly says shyly. 'John, I've been meaning to apologise for my involvement in Sherlock's... his... that is, I know it was difficult...'

'Molly, it's fine,' John interrupts gently, watching her flush crimson. 'I don't blame you for anything. Don't worry about it.'

'Okay, good,' she says with a relieved smile.

'Now all that's out of the way,' Lestade says, moving to an armchair and plopping himself into it. 'Do you want to tell us what's going on?'

'Sherlock's left,' John says bluntly, figuring it would probably be best to get to the root of the matter. 'Mycroft knows where he went but won't tell me. I need to find him and I hoped you might have some idea where he is. A case or something that I don't know about?' He is aware his tone is pleading but can't help it. Lestrade frowns and he and Molly exchange a quick glance.

'I'm sorry, John. I haven't been in touch with Sherlock since I refused to give him the cold cases.'

'Damn it,' John mutters softly, collapsing onto the sofa opposite Lestrade. 'Molly? Any ideas?' She shakes her head, her eyes sad.

'I'm sorry, John. When did he leave?'

'Yesterday afternoon. We... we had an argument the night before. Things haven't been easy between us ever since he came back. It's mostly my fault. I pushed him away.'

'Mate, he pulled a disappearing act on you for three years,' Lestrade responds, running a hand through his silvery hair. 'No-one blames you for keeping him at a distance.'

'It's more than that,' John says miserably. 'I think, I _know_ I made him feel unwanted. He tried to explain so many times why he left and what it did to him to leave. I just wouldn't listen. I didn't want to listen. I got so caught up in my own anger and pain that I completely ignored him. I shut him out. And clearly yesterday was the last straw. He left me a note saying that I should try and find a life without him as I'd obviously be happier.'

'He _said_ that?' Lestrade asks disbelievingly and Molly's eyebrows raise.

'Well, he wrote it,' John responds tiredly.

'Isn't that a good idea, though?' Molly says timidly. 'I mean, this time at least you know he's alive. He's actually trying to do the selfless thing I guess. You told me once you'd always wanted a family and children. Now can be your chance. You could give it a bit of time and then perhaps get back in touch with Sherlock.'

'I was kidding myself when I told you I wanted that,' John replies. He steels himself and takes a deep breath. 'The truth is, I don't want those things unless I can have them with Sherlock. I'm... I'm in love with him.' The ending of the sentence is said in almost a whisper and Lestrade leans forward.

'Sorry, what?'

'I'm in love with him,' John repeats, a little louder this time. Molly's eyes grow wide and Lestrade gazes in astonishment at John.

'You're in love with Sherlock.'

'Yes.'

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Yes.'

He whistles softly and leans back in his chair. 'Wow. Well. That's a turn-up.'

'Tell me about it,' John mutters. 'I spent so long denying it to myself but... who grieves for a best mate for _three years_? You tried to tell me once, Lestrade. I just didn't listen.'

'I'm not going to lie John, ever since he turned up to that crimescene in Brixton with you in tow there have been all sorts of rumours flying about the station. Not particularly savoury ones either.'

'I can believe that,' John says bitterly. 'Seems like almost everybody thought we were together.'

'You have to find him, John,' Molly says and her eyes look distinctly teary.

'I know,' John murmurs. He sighs and gets up. 'Well, I'll just have to keep thinking I suppose. If either of you thinks of anything, please let me know. And congratulations again.' He smiles at them and lets himself out.

Back at 221B he stands and lets his gaze travel restlessly around the empty living-room. Sherlock's Stradivarius still stands in the corner near the window, his skull is on the mantelpiece and evidence of his recent experiments still cover almost every available surface. It feels like he could bound in again at any second. John rubs at his face and then moves to the kitchen to boil the kettle, an automatic movement. He has to stop himself taking two mugs down from the cabinet.

This is dangerous. He can feel himself slipping once more into that dark place he occupied for three years while believing Sherlock dead. No matter what the detective may think, knowing he is alive doesn't help in the slightest. He may be alive but he is _not here_, where he belongs, with John.

Tea made, John carries it back into the living-room and sinks into his chair. The heat from the mug burns itself into his palms and the steam rises in front of his face as he sits there, just blankly staring at nothing. He needs to find Sherlock.

The next morning no epiphany has occurred to him. The flat is still empty. Sherlock is still gone and John doesn't have the faintest idea how to go about looking for him. For the first time it really hits him just how big England is. There are any number of places Sherlock could be. That's supposing he's still in England at all. But he has to be. While he is still in the country there is a chance, a slender chance that John could find him. But if he has gone elsewhere... John shakes his head. The prospects of finding him again are bleak.

With a lack of anything else to do, John flips open his laptop and opens up Google. He types Sherlock's name into the search engine and immediately any number of articles come up. Scrolling through them he can see that most of them are still raving on about the revelation that Richard Brook never existed and Sherlock was right all along. He is mentioned a couple of times, though only in passing.

Suddenly his eye is caught by a tiny link near the bottom of the page he is looking at. The name Sherlock Holmes is highlighted.

_**No new leads in Roman Bath murder case**_

_Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, is allegedly helping the Wiltshire police with their enquiries which are ongoing into the murder of Austin Drake. Drake was found murdered..._

His pulse racing, John clicks on the link and immediately the full story comes up, taken from the _Bath Chronicle_.

Of course! How could he have been so stupid? All he'd had to do to locate Sherlock was search for any interesting cases outside of London. Where else would the detective have gone, with Lestrade refusing to let him in on any crimescenes? Quickly he reaches for his phone and calls Mycroft.

'He's in Bath, isn't he?'

There is silence on the other end of the line and then Mycroft replies. 'I am not saying yes or no, Doctor Watson. I made a promise.' But his voice is full of quiet praise and John knows he is right. He says goodbye abruptly and then logs onto the First Great Western site. The next train from Paddington to Bath Spa station leaves at five forty-five p.m. That gives him most of the day to pack and try to think what to say to Sherlock when he sees him. Assuming that the detective is still there.

He calls up another window in his browser and quickly books a room for two nights at a travelodge just outside Bath city centre. With that done he heads upstairs to pack.

It only occurs to him once he's on the train and settled in that he has no idea exactly _where_ in Bath Sherlock is staying. There could presumably be any number of hotels, lodges or BnB's in the immediate area. Before he can properly begin to panic about this rather large oversight he forces himself to think logically. Sherlock obviously went to Mycroft for help in organising his disappearance. Therefore it makes sense that Mycroft was the one to book Sherlock's accomodation for him. Smiling slightly, John accesses the internet on his phone and looks up the number for The Royal Crescent Hotel. He remembers reading something about it fairly recently and from what he read it certainly sounds like exactly the sort of place Mycroft would arrange for his little brother to stay in.

'Good afternoon, The Royal Crescent Hotel, how can I help you?' The woman on the other end of the phone is soft-spoken and quietly professional.

'Hi, I'm wondering if you have a Sherlock Holmes registered at the moment?'

'I'll just check for you, sir.' There is silence for a moment apart from the faint tapping of computer keys. 'We do have a Mr. S. Holmes registered. Can I take a message for him?'

John pauses. 'No, no there's no need. Thanks very much.'

'You're welcome, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?'

'No thanks, bye,' John says tiredly. He hangs up the phone and drums on his leg as he stares out of the window at the steadily darkening sky and the rushing countryside. Everything is done. He knows where Sherlock is and which hotel he's staying at. All that he has to think of now is what on earth he's going to _say_ to the man.


	8. Meetings

**Chapter Eight**

_**Meetings**_

'Ah, Sergeant Halworth. Only ten minutes late but that is presumably because you spent quite some time pacing outside debating whether to come in.' Sherlock smiles humourlessly and walks back into the living-room of his suite, leaving Halworth to close the door.

The Sergeant does so and follows Sherlock, who turns to face him, the cool smile still in place.

'This is no time for games,' Halworth spits, his face a riot of anger, confusion and fear. 'I know you know.'

'How enigmatic,' Sherlock sighs. Once upon a time he would have found the Sergeant's impotent rage amusing, but he is so emotionally drained that he finds he can summon up virtually no interest in the proceedings whatsoever. He just wants this case to be finished and done with, which it should be by the end of tonight. He has already called Mycroft. His plane leaves at one o'clock the next afternoon from Bristol airport. He is taking nothing with him, nothing to remind him of his old life. A fresh start, to try and forget all about John Watson, the man who has somehow managed, against all the odds, to capture Sherlock's heart.

'Stop fucking around!' Halworth shouts. It is at this point that Sherlock notices for the first time the rather obvious shape of a knife in the man's pocket. Rather dangerous, he thinks vaguely, carrying an unsheathed blade like that. But then again, Halworth very obviously isn't thinking rationally. 'I know you've figured out it was me who cut Drake's throat and did all the Latin stuff on the wall. I know!'

'Well, actually, I didn't _know_ for certain I merely had a suspicion which you have now proved correct. My thanks for that,' Sherlock drawls.

'And what was this suspicion?' Halworth snaps, his face drawn and ugly with hatred.

'That you were called by your half-sister on the night in question to protect her. She'd been seeing Austin Drake for a few weeks and the relationship was still new and exciting. Drake was something of an adrenaline junkie, not to mention an exhibitionist, and he'd taken her to the Baths at night in the hopes of getting lucky. Unfortunately for him your half-sister suffers from a slight hormonal imbalance, which I suspect you have also inherited from your shared mother. There was a fight and in the heat of the moment she pushed him. He hit his head and died almost instantly. Your sister is a very excitable, nervous sort of person and this wouldn't be the first time she has called you to get her out of some sort of trouble. You came over instantly and decided the best thing to do would be to make the accident look as if it were deliberate. Using your knowledge as a police officer you altered the crimescene and attempted to obliterate all signs that you or she had ever been there. Unfortunately you missed the footprints in the foyer and the few hairs she left on Drake's shirt.' Sherlock pauses and eyes Halworth carefully. The other man is breathing hard and his eyes are narrow with fury. 'Facebook can be incredibly helpful if you know how to hack into user's accounts,' Sherlock continues blithely. 'From Drake's account I found out that he'd been seeing someone for a few weeks, going by the dates on the photos. The woman in question was named Hannah Blake. She was young with long blonde hair and looked astonishingly similar to a certain Sergeant attached to the case. From her account I found out that she listed you as her half-brother. You share the same mother and are approximately ten years Hannah's senior. This almost certainly explains the protectiveness you feel for her.'

'I tried everything to cover my tracks,' Halworth says lowly. 'She can't go to prison, it would kill her. She's highly fragile.' His face twists. 'I can't allow you to go blabbing about this.' His hand moves, faster than Sherlock anticipated, to his pocket and in a couple of seconds the knife is gleaming in the soft light from the lamps in the corners of the room. 'If I get rid of you, then there's no problem.' He appears to be talking to himself. Automatically Sherlock moves backwards a few paces, his eyes flickering everywhere, calculating distances. 'Your great brain can't save you, not now,' Halworth pants, pacing towards the detective, the knife weaving in front of him.

Sherlock is a little worried, but not panicked. He did a lot of boxing when he was younger and is skilled at hand-to-hand combat. He will have to be careful though. A knife can be unpredictable, as he has learnt before.

'You don't seriously think you are going to get away with murdering me in my own hotel room?' Sherlock asks, his voice thick with disdain.

'I'll work something out,' Halworth mutters, apparently only just clinging onto the last of his sanity.

Suddenly he makes a lunge at Sherlock who moves backwards but not quite quickly enough. The blade catches him on the right side of his torso, just above his hipbone, leaving a sharp flare of pain. Sherlock gasps and spins to the left. He lashes out with his fist, hoping for a knockout blow to the head, but Halworth seems to have been anticipating a move like that. Quicker than a snake, the knife darts out again and this time catches Sherlock straight across the knuckles. The wound spurts blood and Sherlock moves back, thinking hard.

Halworth moves forward again, the gleaming blade of the knife now dull and sticky with blood and Sherlock moves. He uses his natural agility to dart around the Sergeant and within a second is standing behind him. Before Halworth can figure out what happened he sweeps his foot in a low arc and the other man tumbles to the floor. The knife clatters out of his hand and instantly Sherlock kicks it away. He stares down at the man lying prone on the floor and for just a few moments his demons crowd in his head, screaming at him to seize the knife and put an end to Halworth, just as he has done with any who threatened him before. However the madness passes and Sherlock closes his eyes momentarily before bending down and grabbing Halworth's shoulders. He looks into the man's bloodshot gray eyes for one moment before he slams the man's head hard against the floor.

The gray eyes grow dazed and then flutter shut. Halworth is unconscious.

XXXXXXXXXX

At about the time Sherlock is realising he may be in trouble when Halworth pulls a knife on him, John's taxi arrives outside The Royal Crescent Hotel. He pays the driver and exits the car. Standing on the pavement he gives himself a moment to take in the beauty of the view. Bath lies spread out below him. On either side the Crescent stretches away, tall pale buildings rising to the sky.

But no matter how beautiful the view, he is here for a specific purpose and he is well aware that he is delaying. A low coil of anxiety has set up root in his stomach. How will Sherlock respond to his being here? And what is he supposed to say or do to set things right between them? _Can_ he set things right or have events gone too far for any sort of reconciliation? Steeling himself he marches through the doors of the hotel and approaches the reception desk.

'Hi there. May I help you?' The receptionist, a well-groomed young man glances up at him. John smiles.

'Hi, I'm looking for a guest. His name is Sherlock Holmes.'

The man taps at his computer for a moment. 'Yes, he's in room 410. Would you like me to ring up?'

'No!' John says a little too quickly. The man frowns, puzzled. John forces his features into something resembling a calm demeanour. 'I... it's a surprise. I don't want him to know I'm coming. Room 410 – would that be on the fourth floor?'

'That's right, sir. Take the lift and it's just to your right.'

'Thank you.'

As the lift hums its way to the upper floors, John attempts to calm his mind. But his palms are becoming increasingly sweaty and his mind is fogged. He doesn't think he has ever felt this nervous in his life.

The lift doors ding open and he steps out into a lush carpeted hallway. _Right, the guy said_. He paces down the corridor, counting the numbers as he goes. 405, 406, 407, 408, 409... and right at the end of the hall the door he is looking for. 410.

He approaches, takes another deep breath and raps smartly on the door.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock straightens and gazes down at the unconscious man. He should really call Inspector Clyde but right at that moment two things make themselves known to him. The first is that his side is leaking blood and the second is that somebody is knocking sharply on the door.

Moving stiffly he gets a towel from the bathroom and clamps it to his waist. From peering at it he can tell that the wound is not serious, just a scratch really, but the amount of blood is alarming.

He pulls open the door and stares. John Watson stands on the other side of the threshold, a suitcase beside him. His mind short-circuits. As he looks on the doctor his mind is assaulted.

_John's flat, working up the nerve to approach._

_John disbelieving, thinking he's a ghost._

_John punching him in the face._

_John screaming at him to leave._

_John listening to his story and then leaving again._

_John patching him up, his fingers infinitely gentle._

_John staying but nothing is right, nothing is the same._

_John coming in drunk, shouting at him._

_John kissing him._

_John not remembering._

_John._

_John._

The world turns black.


	9. Strain and Tears

**Chapter Nine**

_**Strain and Tears**_

John isn't sure what he is expecting. But it almost certainly isn't Sherlock, standing there with a snowy towel, which is steadily turning crimson, clutched to his waist, staring at him like he's a ghost.

The oceanic eyes are distant and shocked. Try as he might, John cannot track the countless emotions. Suddenly, as he watches, those eyes roll back into Sherlock's head and the detective crumples to the floor. It is all John can do to dart forwards and catch him before he hits the carpet.

His eyes flick over Sherlock. The towel has fallen away from his side, exposing the ripped material of his shirt and the shallow but ugly wound beneath. Sherlock's right hand is bleeding across the knuckles. It looks to John like injuries inflicted by a knife.

'Jeeesus,' he curses softly. Carefully he scoops his arms underneath Sherlock until he is cradling him, staggers to his feet and makes his way over the threshold. He barely notices the sumptuous decor, the ridiculous size of the suite or the man lying unconscious on the floor. He lays Sherlock on the sofa and then retrieves his bag from the hallway. Luckily he always keeps an emergency med kit in his suitcase.

'Sherlock?' he says softly as he kneels next to the sofa. 'Can you hear me?'

The detective's eyelashes flutter against his cheek but he doesn't respond. Quickly John takes off Sherlock's shirt to examine the gash to his side. He was right in his initial inspection. The wound is not at all life-threatening. Swiftly John dabs iodine on it before dressing it. He does the same with the cut to Sherlock's knuckles. Only then does he stop and glance at the comatose body on the carpet.

'What on earth is going on?' he mutters to himself, quickly checking the man's vitals. They're healthy and he rocks back on his heels. Just what is he supposed to do now?

'John?' Sherlock's tone is raspy and bemused.

'Sherlock? What's going on here? Who is this?'

'Call Clyde. There's a tape-recorder on the mantelpiece. Solved the case.' Sherlock turns over on the sofa and assumes a familiar position, his face buried in the cushions.

'Where is this Clyde's number?' John asks with infinite patience. Sherlock huffs and gestures to the table.

'My phone. Under Inspector.'

Rolling his eyes, but strangely grateful to have an opportunity to delay the inevitable, John grabs the phone and accesses the contact menu.

'Inspector Clyde,' the voice on the other end snaps.

'Hi, my name's John Watson, I'm a... friend of Sherlock Holmes.'

'Yes?' the tone is wary now.

'You might want to pay a visit to his hotel room. The Royal Crescent Hotel, room 410. I have an unconscious man here, a tape-recorder and Sherlock says he's solved the case.'

'Why isn't he ringing?' Clyde asks, although there's a tinge of hope in his voice.

'He's... .somewhat indisposed at the moment.'

'Injured?' The Inspector doesn't sound particularly worried and John feels his free hand clench into a fist.

'Yes. I'm a doctor, I'm taking care of it.'

'I'll be over as soon as I can. What room number?'

'410,' he responds and hangs up the phone abruptly. Slowly he turns to face the curled up figure of the detective. 'Sherlock?' Silence. 'I know you can hear me. What happened here?'

Finally Sherlock turns onto his back, gazing vacantly up at the ceiling. 'I should have thought it was obvious even to somebody incredibly dim-witted. I have solved the case. Listen to the tape if you wish. I do presume you read up on the case before coming here.'

Indeed John had. He takes in a deep breath and then reaches for the tape-recorder. In silence he listens to the entirety of the conversation.

'Jesus, you really have a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way don't you?'

'It was necessary. I needed him to confess. I had my suspicions but no concrete proof that would convict him.'

'What's going to happen to the sister? This Hannah Blake?'

'Oh I imagine she'll get a reduced sentence due to diminished responsibility,' Sherlock murmurs, closing his eyes. John nods, rubbing at the back of his neck.

'Right. And Halworth?' Sherlock moves his shoulders in a lazy shrugging motion.

'He's guilty of corrupt behaviour and altering a crimescene amongst others.' They fall silent and John paces the suite while Sherlock remains stone-still on the sofa. John is increasingly aware of the elephant in the room, and the fact that Sherlock has not looked at him once since he regained consciousness. Time stretches on as John desperately wracks his brain for something to say which will not make the situation worse.

There's a knock at the door which startles him out of his thoughts. Inspector Clyde already? He realises he must have drifted into some sort of daze and mentally shakes himself before crossing to the door, knowing that it's incredibly unlikely Sherlock will rouse himself from the sofa.

Upon opening the door John is confronted with the sight of a tall man with thinning brown hair and tired blue eyes. He flips his badge at John. Behind him are a couple of other officers.

'John Watson?'

'Yes. You must be Inspector Clyde.'

'I am. Can we come in? Where's Sherlock?'

'He's in the living-room.' John trails after them.

'What in God's name is going on here? Sherlock? Why on earth is Halworth unconscious?' There is no response from the detective and the Inspector almost growls in frustration as one of his officers kneels to check on Halworth. 'Answer me you freak!'

John's eyes narrow as he hears the familiar insult leave the Inspector's lips but he manages not to lose his temper. Finally Sherlock opens his eyes, but doesn't shift his gaze from the ceiling.

'Tape recorder,' is all he says. Wordlessly John hands the tape over to the Inspector who flicks play immediately. During the conversation the colour gradually drains from Clyde's face and by the click signalling the end of the recording his face is greyish and haggard.

'Get him out of here,' he mutters to the officers. They heave Halworth, who is beginning to come to, to his feet. Absently John reflects it must have been a hell of blow Sherlock gave him to keep him out so long.

'You two will have to come down to the station tomorrow to give statements. Nine o'clock sharp.' With that charming goodbye he leaves, following his officers and the staggering Halworth.

John watches the door click shut and then turns on his heels to look at the detective. 'Sherlock? Are you even going to look at me?'

'If you're here to ask about why my things are still in the flat, I have decided not to take them with me. You may leave them where they are, or you can call Mycroft who will dispose of them. It's up to you.' His tone is clinical and cool.

'I'm not going to call Mycroft,' John says slowly. Sherlock shrugs again.

'Fine. Keep them. It makes no difference to me.'

'Well, I'm sure it will when you move back and all your stuff has been got rid of,' John says quietly.

'I'm not moving back. I have a flight to catch at one tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to Canada,' Sherlock says stiffly.

'Like hell you are!' John shouts, finally losing his cool. 'Sherlock, you don't get to pull this crap on me again, okay? You just don't.'

He has got so used to Sherlock's comatose position that it startles him when Sherlock sits bolt upright and spins to face him, his eyes blazing.

'Oh right, John, because it's _all_ about you! I know what I did hurt you and I have overridden my own dislike of emotions and feelings in order to apologise to you _over and over_ again. It is clear I can do no more and so, in respect for our friendship, I am leaving you free to move on with your life. From the moment I returned you made it clear you were not ever going to forgive me. I tried everything, I tried to explain that I did it for _you_, in my mind I had no choice. I couldn't let you die. Despite everything you have somehow become important to me and I hate that! You are the only person to make me _care_ and yet you still persist in believing me emotionless and unfeeling.' He stands up and rakes his hands through his hair, while John looks on, eyes wide. 'You accused me many times of not caring about you when any idiot with half a brain could see that I acted like I did because I _do_. I think, in this whole situation, the one who obviously doesn't care is _you_, John. And...' his voice quietens and he turns away, towards the bedroom, 'it hurts. Congratulations John, you've exacted your revenge on me. You can move on with your life and I will attempt to forget you.' John can do nothing but watch dumbly as Sherlock goes into the bedroom and shuts the door. He cannot forget the way Sherlock's voice trembled near the end of his tirade. He cannot forget the slight moisture gathering in the corner of Sherlock's eyes.

He has already realised his own blame but to hear it verbalised by Sherlock like that...

'Shit, what a mess,' he mutters, sinking his head in his hands. 'What a _fucking _mess.' In normal circumstances John would have left Sherlock to calm down and attempted to talk to him later. But he is well aware that he is against the clock. He has to convince Sherlock to stay.

He knocks on the door and leans his ear against the wood. 'Sherlock, can I come in?' There is no reply and so he goes in anyway.

'Did I answer in the affirmative?' Sherlock snaps instantly from his position by the window. 'Leave me alone, John.'

'No. Not until we've got this sorted. Listen, I owe you a massive apology. I'm not going to deny that I had plenty of reason for acting like I did. You convinced me you were _dead_ Sherlock. For three years. I almost killed myself twice.'

Sherlock spins to face him and the desolation is written all over his features. 'I know,' he whispers. 'You have to _promise_ me you will never do anything like that ever again.'

'Why would I need to?' John asks. 'The only reason I even contemplated it was the thought of a life without you.'

'Oh, and so that's your ploy is it?' Sherlock's face twists. 'You're going to force me to stay by threatening suicide?'

'No! Of course not! Jesus, Sherlock, it's... that was different... Look. I'm trying to explain why I found it so difficult to accept you coming back. And apologise for how it made you feel. I was selfish, I know I was. I was thinking about myself and didn't even consider what you'd gone through.'

'I thought we were friends,' Sherlock says shakily. 'I thought friends forgave each other. I had hoped... I hoped you would forgive me. The thought of you forgiving me was what kept me going.' His features darken. 'But I've already told you my little sob story. I'm sure if it was going to make any difference it would have done so already. I'm wasting my time here.' He begins to turn but John lunges forward and catches his wrist, spinning him around to face him again.

'No, you're not. You're really not. I'm listening now, Sherlock. It took me long enough, I know. I don't want you to go. I'm really sorry for pushing you away. It was hideous of me.' He pauses and for the first time seems to fully realise that he is standing very close to the still shirtless detective. Flushing he moves back a pace. Sherlock watches him closely, his eyes still slightly red-rimmed. 'And, I have something else I need to apologise for as well.'

'You're on a roll,' Sherlock mutters.

'Mycroft showed me a video. Of that night in the living room.'

For a split second there is blank incomprehension on Sherlock's face and then his eyes widen in horror. 'I am going to _kill_ him!' he growls. 'Why can't he _ever_ keep his big nose out of my business? I suppose he was the one who told you I was here as well?'

'Actually no, I worked that out for myself.'

'Really? How?'

John rolls his eyes. 'Headlines about a guy murdered in the Roman Baths with Latin scrawled in blood all over the walls, no leads? Where else would you be?'

Sherlock allows himself a small quirk of the lips before panic begins to set in again. John can almost see the walls being built.

'I'm sorry you had to see that, John,' he murmurs. 'I know how happy you were not remembering.'

'Sherlock, do you understand _why_ I'm apologising to you?'

'Not really,' Sherlock mutters.

'I took advantage! I forced myself on you and... Sherlock that was your first kiss. Wasn't it?'

'I don't see how that is relevant.'

'Because nobody's first kiss should be an angry one from their drunk flatmate, that's why! And then for me not to remember it, that makes it even worse.'

'Stop talking John,' Sherlock says tightly and John can see that his fragile composure is just about ready to crack. 'Stop. I need a cigarette.'

With that he yanks open the drawer of the nightstand, snatches up a crumpled pack of Marlboros and disappears out of the bedroom. John takes a few moments to take a deep breath then he grabs Sherlock's jacket and follows him out. He finds the detective sitting morosely at the edge of Victoria Park, his cigarette tip glowing in the dark, strands of smoke curling above his head and dissipating in the night air. Without saying anything he sits next to him and throws the jacket around his shoulders. Glancing sideways he can see that the cigarette is trembling as Sherlock brings it to his lips and inhales deeply. He cannot help but feel an odd surge of arousal as the ridiculous cupid-bow lips clamp around the butt of the cigarette.

'Sherlock. I came home drunk, proceeded to shout at you, insult you and then... Christ, virtually assault you. I stole your first kiss and then forgot all about it.'

'I don't see why you're so bothered,' Sherlock whispers, his gaze distant.

'I'm bothered because I care about you, Sherlock. I'm bothered because...' _Sink or swim, Johnny, sink or swim._ 'Because I have these, ahem, feelings for you and... and I've thought alot about what our first kiss might, hypothetically speaking, be like. And I ruined it.' John shrugs, feeling slightly teary.

'You care about me? And you mean romantically?' Sherlock's tone is icy.

'Well, yes, I guess that's what I'm saying,' John falters, taken slightly aback. 'It's alright, I know you can't ever, erm, reciprocate...'

'No. I can't. You're wasting your time, John.'

John hisses in a breath. 'That was incredibly blunt.' He can feel the damn tears again. He doesn't know what he'd expected when he told Sherlock but he'd hoped the other man would have been a little more understanding of his feelings. Oh, who is he kidding? This is _Sherlock_. And he's probably just wrecked things beyond all repair.

'I don't have time to waste with social niceties, John, you should know that about me. You should also know that I am a high-functioning sociopath, incapable of forming lasting connections with people. I don't have anything to offer you in any capacity apart from a life where you take risks and face injury virtually every day.' Sherlock's voice gradually rises in hysteria until he is almost screaming. John's eyes widen as he sees the tears track their way down Sherlock's pale cheeks.

'You're lying,' John says, with dawning realisation.

'I am not.'

'Yes, you are. You're not a sociopath at all – what are you trying to pull, Sherlock? Who are you trying to kid? This is me, I've lived with you for _years_. How can you possibly try to tell me you're a sociopath when you've spent the last few weeks insisting you care for me? Hell, you screamed it at me just a few minutes ago.'

Sherlock's face is blank but a muscle is twitching in his cheek. And then, against all the odds, he begins to laugh. It's the full, belly laugh that always makes John smile when he hears it. Sherlock glances at him and then John is laughing too.

'It makes no difference,' Sherlock mutters after the fit has passed. 'You don't want to be with me.' He drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his shoe.

'Can't I decide that for myself?'

'I'm not... I haven't had much in the way of... there was never any point in indulging because...'

'It's fine, Sherlock,' John interrupts. 'I know you're not experienced with relationships. I know you're a virgin. It wasn't exactly hard to figure out. I don't care.'

'You don't care? I'm thirty-four-years-old John.'

'So?'

Sherlock shifts on the pavement to look at John properly. His eyes rove over John's face.

'You don't care?'

'Nope, not in the slightest.' He shuffles closer and Sherlock makes no attempt to stop him. 'All I have to know is whether my feelings are returned. Even just a little.' There is a long silence.

'Yes they are,' Sherlock whispers. 'That's why I left, I couldn't stand being around you thinking you resented me for everything. But it hurt everytime I thought about you being with somebody else.'

'Can I do something?' John asks. Sherlock nods, his eyes now seeming to eat up his face. John leans in close and places a hand on Sherlock's cheek. He rubs the pad of this thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone and presses a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. The detective remains stiff and still but John persists. Gradually he feels Sherlock melt into him and he wraps his free arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling them closer together. His nerves revel in the feel of the detective's slightly chilled bare skin under his fingertips. Their lips move softly until John pulls back.

'That's what it should have been like,' John murmurs, keeping his hand in place on Sherlock's cheek. 'D'you reckon you can delete that night in the living-room?'

'I can't. I've found, most irritatingly, that I cannot delete anything to do with you. It's why I'm stuck with remembering the entire plot of _When Harry Met Sally_.' He pauses for a second. 'Am I forgiven?'

'Just so long as you never leave me behind again. Ever.'

'I don't think I could. You have a disturbing habit of being constantly fascinating.'

John smiles and then glances around. 'We should get back in. You're freezing and I need to get to the travelodge.' He wraps a hand around Sherlock's wrist and heaves the detective to his feet. In the shining light from the many hotel windows Sherlock's skin gleams paler than ever, the crimson-stained gauze showing up vividly on his waist and knuckles. Sherlock shifts slightly from foot to foot and gazes off into the distance, his cheeks flushing with sudden colour.

'I'd been thinking that you might...' he coughs slightly, 'there's a double bed and it would save time. Besides then we can go to the police station tomorrow to give our statements together. It's the most efficient solution.'

John glances up at him and grins. 'I guess I'll be cancelling my stay at the Travelodge then?'

'Indeed,' Sherlock responds abruptly. There is a long pause. When Sherlock next speaks his tone is hesitant and questioning. 'I suppose I should cancel my flight tomorrow?'

In answer John stretches up and plants a quick kiss on his mouth. 'Most definitely.'

As they go back inside the receptionist on duty studiously avoids making any kind of comment on the fact that Sherlock is bleeding and shirtless apart from a jacket slung around his shoulders. John has to stifle a smile as he smiles politely at them.

'Is everything okay? Can I help you with anything?'

'No, we're good thanks,' John says smiling. He glances at Sherlock. 'Perhaps you could arrange for breakfast for two to be sent up to room 410? At seven o'clock?'

'Of course, sir.'

John smiles at him and then tows Sherlock towards the lift. As it hums its way upwards, John becomes aware that Sherlock is fidgeting anxiously beside him. Glancing at the other man he notices the long fingers twisting together and those amazing verdigris eyes are shifting all around the enclosed space.

'You okay, Sherlock?'

'I'm fine,' Sherlock replies instantly in a slightly strained tone. The lift doors open and immediately the detective is striding down the hallway towards the room, John following behind. When they are back in the suite John glances at his watch and yawns.

'Wow, we should get some sleep if we're going to be up at seven in the morning. Bed, d'you think?'

'If you want to,' Sherlock replies stiffly, following John who is already moving towards the bedroom. Once inside, after John has flicked on a lamp, Sherlock taps him on the shoulder. Surprised John turns to face the detective.

'What is it?'

'How does this normally go? Should I take my clothes off now or would you prefer to do it?' John blinks and takes a step backwards, eyeing Sherlock closely. Sherlock's lips are pressed tightly together, his eyes are wide and bright and his whole physical posture is screaming.

'Sherlock, what are you talking about?'

The detective manages an eye-roll, although it lacks some of its usual conviction. 'I should have thought it was obvious. I know you will want sex and I know that is part of a relationship. Seeing as my information in this particular area is insufficient at present I need you to instruct me. Should I take my clothes off now?'

John's mind has gone blank and he cannot quite form words to answer. Sherlock fumbles with his belt buckle and then takes off his trousers. As he lays them carefully over a chair in the corner John notices his hands are shaking again.

'Stop,' John says quietly. 'Sherlock, stop taking your clothes off.'

'Oh, so you'd prefer to do that part?'

John steps a little closer. 'I would _love_ to do that part, when both of us are ready for taking that step.'

Sherlock's fingertips are already underneath the waistband of his boxers. Gaping slightly he stares at John.

'What?'

'All I want to do is get in that bed and sleep with you beside me.'

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at John.

'You don't want sex?'

'Not right now.'

'Why not?'

John can't help the laugh that escapes. Sherlock's brows knit together and his eyes narrow. John recognises his, _I'm confused but hate admitting that I have no idea what to do_, face.

'Sherlock, I'm tired. Today's been an emotional rollercoaster for both of us. All I want to do is just get some sleep.'

Sherlock sits down on the edge of the bed, his gaze riveted on the plush carpet. 'Does this mean you do not desire me sexually?' The only way John manages to contain his laugh this time is by seeing the tormented expression on Sherlock's face.

'Sherlock, listen to me. There is nothing I want to do more than fuck you into this mattress.' Sherlock glances at him.

'That was delicately put, John.' But some life is returning to his expression, and his eyes are happier. John grins and starts stripping down to his boxers.

'It's true. But I don't want to rush this, Sherlock. It's too important to me. _You're _too important to me. And you're, as you said, inexperienced in this area. I don't want to go too fast. What happened just now? That says to me you're not ready.'

'So, just sleeping then?'

Sherlock flushes slightly as he fidgets near the end of the bed, clad in just his boxers. John pats the mattress next to him.

'Just sleeping.'

Slowly Sherlock crosses to the bed and lies down under the duvet.

'You don't have to act like there's a wall between us,' John murmurs. 'Turn over on your side.' Looking a little bewildered, Sherlock obeys. John shuffles over and envelops the other man's frame in the classic spooning position. Sherlock grunts slightly and presses back into John's body. There is silence for a moment.

'This position is extraordinarily comfortable,' Sherlock remarks. John, for his part, cannot help but revel in the fact that he is now pressed from shoulder to ankle flush to Sherlock, with both of them dressed only in their underwear. He can feel the warmth emanating from the detective's skin, and his nose is pressed into Sherlock's curls which are soft and redolent with the smell of his shampoo. Slowly he drifts off to sleep.


	10. A Frank Conversation

**Chapter Ten**

_**A Frank Conversation**_

Sherlock is woken by a gentle rapping noise. He sits up in bed, the duvet pooling around his waist. The alarm-clock on the bedside table is flashing 7:00 in large red letters. Ah yes, John ordered breakfast and that must be it at the door. As he swings his legs out of bed he glances down at the sleeping man beside him. John is curled up on his side, and his arms are a little outstretched as if he is missing Sherlock's warmth already. Sherlock smiles slowly and, before he can help himself, leans down and presses a kiss to John's temple. John snuffles and buries his head deeper into the pillow. Feeling a little foolish, and overly sentimental, Sherlock inhales sharply a few times before pulling one of the plush hotel dressing-gowns around him and moving through the suite to the front door.

'Good morning, sir. Here is the breakfast for you two you ordered.'

Sherlock takes charge of the trolley the young woman at the door begins to wheel in.

'Thank you. You may leave.' She blinks at him and suddenly he thinks he has maybe been too abrupt. 'Have a nice day,' he adds hesitantly and is rewarded by a slightly bemused smile and a nod as the woman turns and makes her way back down the corridor.

Carefully Sherlock manoeuvers the trolley into the bedroom, he is interested to note that even in a superior hotel the trolley's wheels don't seem to work any better than the supermarket ones John is always complaining about.

'Breakfast, John,' he announces, pulling the heavy curtains apart and letting a flood of early morning sunlight into the room. John grunts and turns over, pulling the duvet over his face. Sherlock pauses. He has never had to wake John up before. What is the correct procedure? What are they to each other? Surely more than friends, however their new relationship has not been cemented and John has not informed him what the appropriate method of awakening the other person is. When he was young his nanny used to wake him up simply by yanking the duvet off but he doubts this will go down too well. 'John, breakfast!' he tries, in a slightly louder tone. There is still no indication that the doctor is waking up. Sherlock frowns and glances at the breakfast trolley. In approximately three and a half minutes the tea will become tepid, any longer than that and it will be cold.

He crosses to the bed and grabs John's shoulder, shaking him vigorously. 'John! Wake up!' The doctor sits bolt upright in bed, eyes wide, short hair sticking out in various directions.

'Sherlock? Are you alright? Is there a fire? What's going on? What did you do?' These questions leave John's mouth at the speed of light, presumably without any interference from his brain. Sherlock, who has taken a step backwards, gestures at the trolley.

'Breakfast.'

John stares at him blankly for a second or two. 'You woke me up like that to tell me that the breakfast arrived?'

Sherlock scowls, thinking this is slightly unfair. 'I tried calling out a couple of times but that was insufficient. In approximately three minutes the tea will become tepid and...'

'Sherlock,' John groans, rubbing his hands into his eyes as he relaxes against the pillows, 'waking somebody up like that when it is _not _an emergency is a little not good. Christ, you almost gave me a heartattack.'

Sherlock nods slightly. 'Noted. I shan't do it again.' He begins to cast around the room for clothes to wear and begins dressing while John watches from the bed. 'You should get dressed and have breakfast. That inestimable idiot, Inspector Clyde, wants us at the station for nine o'clock.'

'Well then, come and join me,' John murmurs and pats the bed invitingly. Sherlock glances at him.

'No. I can't eat, particularly in the mornings, you know it slows me down. Ten minutes, John.' With that he sweeps out of the room. John blinks at the empty space where he was and sighs. Climbing out of bed he pulls the trolley towards him. A softly steaming kettle is accompanied by two china tea-cups, a small jug of milk and a metal container of boiling water. Next to that is a toast-rack with four slices of lightly-toasted bread, two white and two brown. There is cereal, bowls, a selection of spreads, some fruit and even a small selection of cooked meats and scrambled eggs. Two tall jugs full of apple juice and orange juice are also present. It is a breakfast selection designed to please almost any appetite, apart, John thinks rather bitterly, that of Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly he nibbles on a square of toast as he drinks his tea. He can't hear anything from the living-room and assumes that Sherlock is organising his mind for the day ahead. Once he's eaten his fill he wraps a buttered slice of toast in a napkin and starts getting dressed. Holding the wrapped toast loosely in his hand he wanders out of the bedroom.

'Sherlock?'

The detective is sitting on one of the chairs in the living-room, his shirt unbuttoned. John's gaze travels down to the flapping gauze at his side. Sherlock is tentatively poking around the injured area and hissing in breaths between his teeth.

'Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?' John cries, striding over to kneel down next to him and slapping the detective's hand away from the cut.

'I wanted to assess how fast it was healing. The gauze was irritating me,' Sherlock snaps in response. John glances at the wound which glares startlingly crimson against the snowy backdrop of Sherlock's waist.

'Did you mean that in the sense that the actual _material_ of the gauze is irritating your skin or just that it's generally irritating in the mental sense?'

Sherlock huffs a little but mumbles that the gauze physically isn't doing him any harm. John nods and refastens it, ignoring Sherlock's petulant scowl.

'You have to keep this on, Sherlock, for now at least. Once we get back to Baker Street you can probably take it off and air the injury but right now I want to prevent infection, okay?' He shakes his head slightly. 'How come you constantly end up at the mercy of nutters with knives?' Sherlock's eyes narrow.

'Hardly _constantly_, John. It was only twice in the last month or so.'

'I wonder if I'll ever remember what it's like to lead a normal life?' John murmurs in response, almost to himself. Sherlock's brows knit together.

'Is that what you want after all, John? A normal life? Are you perhaps having second thoughts? Because it's not too late for me to catch my flight, I haven't cancelled it yet.' John stills and leans backwards so he is looking squarely into Sherlock's face. There is a slight anxiety in the detective's eyes and one of his hands is absently tugging at his hair.

'Shut up, Sherlock. I'm staying put and so are you. I texted Mycroft last night to ensure he cancelled the flight. _I_ didn't want _you_ having second thoughts.' John gets to his feet and collapses in an armchair opposite the sofa Sherlock is reclining on.

'John...' Sherlock begins but the doctor hushes him by shaking his head slightly. He knows that at some point they will need to sit down and have a proper talk about where they now stand and exactly what their relationship is, but he can't face it now. All he wants to do is go to the damned station, give their statements and then head back home.

Although... he has never been to Bath before and has always wanted to. Perhaps, if he approaches it right, he may be able to convince Sherlock to stay for a few days longer as a sort of mini-holiday. He also has a feeling that any talking they have to do might be better conducted in a neutral space, somewhere Sherlock cannot stalk off to play his violin and John can't decide that they're suddenly out of milk in order to vacate the flat.

'If we must,' Sherlock says suddenly, jerking John out of his thoughts.

'What?'

'If you really want to stay here for a little longer we can.'

'How on earth...?'

Sherlock smiles slightly and launches into his explanation. John lets him talk; propping his chin on his hand he lets the words wash over him as his eyes drink in every little part of Sherlock. His nostrils flare when he gets excited, John notes absently, watching as Sherlock makes a particularly emphatic hand gesture which almost knocks over a decorative vase standing next to him. The detective's eyes are a shining blue today with flecks of green and his pale cheeks are flushed pink which only accentuate those amazing cheekbones. _My God, I love this man. I bloody adore him_.

'John? John?'

John comes back down to earth with an unpleasant bump and actually jolts slightly in his chair.

'Hmm?'

Sherlock pouts, the tips of his fingers together in his classic thinking pose. 'Have you even been listening to a word I was saying?' John shifts guility.

'I may have zoned out, but I'm sure it was brilliantly deduced.'

'Of course it was,' Sherlock retorts before leaning closer. 'What were you thinking about just then? The oddest expression crossed your face. I couldn't read it.'

John blushes slightly and gets up abruptly, really not wanting to drop the L-word on Sherlock right now, just when the detective is getting his head around them being romantically involved.

'Nothing.' John checks his watch. 'We should really get going, it's almost quarter past eight and I have no idea how long it will take to get to the police station from here.'

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. 'Hardly any time at all and besides they're idiots, they can wait. What were you thinking?'

'We shouldn't keep them waiting, Sherlock, it's not polite. Besides the sooner we get there and get it done the sooner we can enjoy the rest of our holiday.'

Sherlock slumps back on the sofa. 'Oh God, it's a _holiday_ now is it? I suppose you're expecting us to wander around holding hands and take photographs of perfectly boring and ordinary buildings?'

John swallows, as this is _just_ what he'd been envisioning, and turns away. Stupid to think that Sherlock would agree to such behaviour, let alone enjoy it. 'Come on. Button up your shirt and lets get moving.'

In a few minutes they are ready to go, as they exit the room John presses the napkin-wrapped toast into Sherlock's hand, ignoring the predicatable glare in response.

'Eat it. That's not a request. Besides, you just finished a case, you can't use your '_It'll slow me down_' excuse.'

'It's not an excuse, it's a verifiable fact,' Sherlock gripes but bites off a small corner of the toast nonetheless.

By the time they've reached the outside of the hotel Sherlock has polished off every last bit of his breakfast and John has to stifle a smirk. He has found over the the years that often, although the detective may insist he isn't hungry, if he is made to eat he usually finishes it all. John rings for a taxi and within minutes it pulls up outside. Sherlock folds himself gracefully inside and John scrambles in after him.

XXXXXXXXXX

It's half past eleven when they finally exit the station, due to the fact that Inspector Clyde made Sherlock go over and over his statement. At times it even seemed to John as if the police officer were deliberately attempting to trip Sherlock up over something, as if he believed the altercation in the hotel room went very differently to how Sherlock said it did, despite the overwhelming evidence on the tape-recorder.

Eventually, however, Clyde was forced to admit Halworth's guilt and let them go.

Bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, John glances around at the ever-busying street. 'Right. What's the plan then?' He turns to glance at Sherlock who appears to be going through some sort of deep emotional turmoil if the way his torso is tensed and his eyes tight is any indictation. 'Sherlock?' John asks a little worriedly, sometimes even for him it's difficult to tell what's going through the detective's head. Without speaking Sherlock thrusts out his left hand and blindly gropes for John's right one, finding it eventually. Once located he grips hard and stares straight ahead. John blinks. 'Sherlock? What are you doing?'

'Practising,' Sherlock grits out. 'Lead on.'

After about five minutes of wandering aimlessly, John begins to lose the feeling in his hand and brings them to a halt. Sherlock looks sharply at him, wondering at the reason for the sudden stop.

'You can loosen your grip a bit, you know,' John says gently. 'It's not supposed to be a chore. And I'm beginning to feel like my fingers are going to drop off any minute now.'

'Sorry,' Sherlock says stiffly, easing his grip a little. 'You know I'm not used to this.'

'It's not supposed to be something onerous,' John says carefully. 'Just do what comes easily and naturally, do whatever feels right. We don't have to hold hands if you don't want to.'

'Ah. Good,' Sherlock responds, dropping John's hand almost instantly. The doctor has to swallow the sudden stab of hurt and hides it by gazing around at the scenery.

'We should probably think about lunch soon,' he says heavily. 'I don't want to hear any arguments, it doesn't have to be anything big. There's any number of likely looking pubs and cafés around here.' Sherlock is staring at John intently and doesn't reply. Taking that as an affirmative John begins to walk again, keeping his eyes out for anywhere which looks like it might do nice food. Sherlock follows behind and after about two minutes of walking John feels a hand slide into his, warm and comforting. He looks at Sherlock who shoots him a glare as if daring him to say anything.

Feeling a beaming smile spread onto his face he tows them in the direction of the centre of town.

After a small lunch at what proclaims itself to be Britain's Smallest Pub, they hit the streets again. John is keen to see Pultney Bridge, the Abbey and Milsom Street, with possibly a visit to Sally Lunn's afterward. He also hopes that tomorrow he may be able to coax Sherlock into coming with him to the Thermal Spa, the top pool of which boasts a view which looks over the whole of Bath.

Suddenly he feels himself being towed into a small side alleyway and is then unceremoniously pressed up against the brickwork of the wall. He is about to ask who's chasing them and why, when Sherlock presses against him and brings their lips together. The kiss is fast and deep, Sherlock's need making itself clear both through the way he moans lightly and nips at John's lower lip and the half-hard ridge of flesh which is currently pressing against John's hipbone. John surrenders to it, opening his mouth a little to allow Sherlock access, widening his legs slightly so that Sherlock can slot a thigh between them.

Fire seems to be coursing through his body, little nerve endings are tingling on his arms, chest and neck. Kissing Sherlock is so different to what he has ever felt before, it feels completely right. All the women he's been with in the past immediately seem like amateurs, even though Sherlock is the one who'd never kissed anybody until a couple of days ago. His hands plunge into Sherlock's inky curls, tugging on them lightly, an action which makes the detective groan low in his throat and attack John's mouth with even more vigour.

Eventually John feels he has to call a halt otherwise it's very likely that he will end up coming in his trousers in the middle of the day in an alleyway which isn't really _that_ hidden from the main street. He places his hands in the centre of Sherlock's chest and pushes lightly. The detective gets the hint and pulls away with a little moan of disappointment, his hair adorably dishevelled and his full lips flushed and swollen. Unable to help himself, John glances down at Sherlock's groin and sees the unmistakeable bulge.

'I'm sorry but you said to do what feels natural and...' Sherlock begins, panting a little for breath.

'Don't apologise,' John gasps, leaning forwards and placing his hands on his knees in an attempt to regain some semblance of dignity. 'That was bloody incredible. How d'you learn to kiss like that?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Elementary, my dear Watson. It is simply a matter of biology after all.'

'Yeah? Well in that case I'm never going to tease you about being a nerdy scientist again,' John responds, finally getting some breath back and straightening up. Sherlock looks mildly affronted.

'You've never called me that anyway,' he says, 'have you?'

'Not to your face,' John replies, grinning. Reaching out a hand he smoothes the unruly curls back into order and takes Sherlock's hand.

They get back to the hotel around six o'clock. John is keen to go out to eat and feels like he should change into something a little smarter than a raggedy jumper and jeans. Sherlock, as usual impeccably attired in black suit trousers and a tight red silk shirt has no need to change and stands by the bedroom door as John flings shirts out one by one onto the bed.

'How about this one?'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'No. Too dressy, looks like something you'd wear to a black-tie event and we're only going out to eat.'

John rummages around and finds a dated, dark blue denim top. He holds it against himself hopefully. 'This one?'

'Come on, John, you outgrew that in your twenties. Next.'

'This one?'

'Do you have _any _decent shirts?'

John scowls and reaches deeper into his case, finally dragging a final option out. He holds it out for Sherlock's inspection, a little tentatively.

'What about this?'

Sherlock is about to issue another scathing statement when he looks more closely at the shirt in John's hands. It is silvery grey in colour and is made out of some sort of crushed linen. He takes it and examines it carefully then steps up and holds it against John.

'Yes, that one,' he says abruptly and leaves the room. John smiles slightly and begins getting dressed.

XXXXXXXXXX

'I cannot believe everywhere is full,' Sherlock snaps, his brows drawing together in consternation.

'Well, there must be spaces _somewhere_,' John replies, staring around at the bustling streets. Although it is scarcely seven-thirty, almost every restaurant they have visited so far has a waiting list of at least an hour.

'Typical of a tourist trap,' Sherlock sniffs, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. 'You'd not have this sort of problem in London.'

'London is the biggest tourist trap in Britain, so shut up,' John returns amiably, drawing Sherlock off down another street. 'Come on, let's find one of those little side streets. I'm sure there's bound to be a pub or something that has some tables free. It'll be like an adventure.'

Sherlock stares at him as he trails along behind. 'An adventure? After all that we've been through on various different cases and so forth, you're calling _this_ an _adventure_?'

John ignores him and after a little walking down various small, cobbled streets he finds himself staring up at a swinging pub sign. It depicts a dark bird in a red frock coat with a walking stick doffing a black top hat. The peeling black letters beneath proclaim the establishment to be The Raven. For some reason the image appeals to him as he can't help but see Sherlock doing exactly the same thing. The man's always seemed to John like he belongs in a different era anyway. The doorway is unusual to say the least, an incredibly narrow entrance with three uneven steps leading up to it. There is the sound of muted conversation from inside.

'How about here?' he says hopefully. By this time his stomach has started complaining quite vociferously. Sherlock sighs.

'Anywhere. It's your choice, you're the one who wanted to go out after all.'

John pushes open the door and makes his way inside. The pub isn't any bigger than it looks from the outside and is very rustic in appearance. John is pleased to see it hasn't made any obvious attempt to turn itself into one of the new gastro-pubs which seem to be popping up all over London. He approaches the bar and the man behind it, who is sporting an incredible grey beard, turns to him, a friendly smile on his face.

'Hi, I was just wondering if you had any tables free?'

The man grunts in acquiescance. 'Think there's a few available upstairs. Just to your right.' And he helpfully points in that direction. John can almost hear Sherlock's brain coming up with some smart-alec comment so he hastily drags the detective out towards the staircase, calling a thank-you to the bartender as he does so.

Soon they have settled themselves in a cosy corner in the upstairs room. John scans the menu while Sherlock amuses himself staring around at the clientele and whispering various amusing deductions to John.

'I'm going to have the steak pie I think. What about you?' Sherlock stares at the menu disdainfully.

'Is there anything on here which isn't drowned in calories and fat?'

'You could have a salad,' John quips. 'Just have the same as me, it sounds good.' Sherlock heaves a long-suffering sigh.

'Fine. Should I place the order?'

'Alright. Get me a pint of Fosters while you do it.'

As Sherlock makes his way through the narrow room to the bar at the other end, John's phone dings with an incoming text. He glances through it quickly.

'Here. Food will be about fifteen minutes apparently, although I doubt it,' Sherlock announces, setting John's pint in front of him and settling back in with his own glass of red wine.

'Got a text from Inspector Clyde,' John says, gesturing to his phone. Sherlock looks disinterested. 'Apparently Halworth's been charged with grievous bodily harm, corruption of a crime-scene and accessory to manslaughter amongst others. They're looking for Hannah Blake now.'

'Predictable,' Sherlock drawls, taking a sip of his drink. 'Honestly, I get excited about the possibility of a killer who is obssessed with Roman history and fluent in Latin and instead I get a corrupt police officer. Dull. I knew it was a mistake coming to Bath.'

John spots an opening here and takes a fortifying gulp of his Fosters. 'We should really talk, you know, Sherlock.'

'Ah, yes. Fire away.'

'This isn't going to be any good if you're going to be glib,' John says. 'For this to work I need you to be open about your feelings.'

Sherlock looks conflicted and stares down at the wooden tabletop. 'You must understand that is difficult,' he says eventually. 'These feelings I have for you, I cannot quantify or explain them.'

'That's natural,' John reassures him. 'The first thing I have to talk to you about is going to be the most difficult so we should get it out of the way first.'

Sherlock looks uncharacteristically anxious and begins tugging absently on a curl just above his right ear. John tries to ignore how adorable he looks and stares in the other direction.

'I've mentioned the fact that, while you were gone, I attempted suicide twice,' John murmurs quietly. Sherlock blanches and he looks as if he's about to speak. John holds up a hand to stop him. 'This is hard, Sherlock, so don't interrupt, please. The first time was in the flat when I...' he falters slightly and then collects himself, '... I considered shooting myself. I got as far as putting the gun in my mouth and then Harry rang. The second time was on Hungerford Bridge. I thought I was forgetting you. I couldn't remember details and it scared me.' He stares directly at Sherlock. 'You mean more to me than anything, Sherlock. Can you understand how much it frightened me to forget you?' He drops his gaze to the table. 'I'd had enough. So I was standing on the edge of the bridge and... this is going to sound ridiculous... but I heard you. I heard your voice. You told me to hold on, that you were coming for me.' He shrugs and takes another gulp of his drink. 'I didn't know what to make of it, but it brought me to my senses.' He glances back up at Sherlock and is horrified to see silent tears streaking those pale cheeks.

'I feel guilty, John,' Sherlock manages at last, not making any effort to stop his outpouring of emotion. 'You, over the past few years, I can't even explain it. I've never even had a flatmate before let alone a friend. I felt a connection with you I haven't with anybody else. I did what I did to help you, to save you and all I did was make things worse. I wouldn't have known what to do if you'd succeeded in your attempts.'

'Well, thank God I didn't, eh?' John says, trying for a light tone of voice. The truth is, he feels ashamed of his efforts to end his life. Now, with Sherlock beside him, it is difficult to remember that darkness into which he'd sunk.

'I mean it, John,' Sherlock says earnestly. 'The thought of it makes me sick and frightened. Promise me you won't do anything like that again.'

'I promise,' John responds. 'But the reason I mentioned it is so you could understand why I reacted the way I did when you returned. I _hated_ you Sherlock. I hated what you'd made me become, I hated my dependence on you... I was a soldier! I fought in a war and yet I was almost broken when my flatmate left.'

They are interrupted by the arrival of the food. The plates are set down in front of them and they wait until the waitress has disappeared before speaking again. John toys with his fork as he continues.

'Correct me if I'm wrong but I've always felt there's some sort of connection between us. Ever since we met, there was something.' He waits but Sherlock is silent. Taking this as encouragement he continues. 'I think it's that which made me agree to meet you, a man I hardly knew, to share a flat. It's that which made me accompany you to that crime-scene, to shoot a taxi-driver for you. I only realised our connection once I thought you'd left me forever.'

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock's voice is cracked. 'I never... you have to believe that...'

John reaches out and rests one of his hands over Sherlock's on the table. 'I do. I accept now that you did what you did for me. I may not understand it, but I accept it. And I forgive you. You have to forgive me now. For treating you like I did once you came back.'

Sherlock's voice is shaky as he replies. 'Knocking on your door was the hardest thing. I'd tortured, maimed, beaten and killed people. I lived through so much darkness and yet when it came to coming back to you I was... scared.' He meets John's eyes and the naked emotion in them is obvious. 'I wanted you to forgive me, I wanted things to go back to how they'd always been. I needed your steadfast support. All my life I've been reviled and criticised. I've been called a freak, a robot, a machine. I wasn't always that way. I've had to harden myself to adapt. I have a superior intellect and the general stupidity of people irritates me. I tried fitting in, but it never worked. Finally I decided that the only way I was going to survive was to develop a hardened outer shell. Mycroft was fully supportive of this, in his opinion feelings bog you down. I followed his example and I thought I'd succeeded when suddenly you come into my life. You challenged me without even knowing you were doing so, John. I can still never predict what you're going to do next sometimes. You're exciting. That moment when you called my deduction of you _amazing_, that's when I knew you were someone different.' He pauses and takes an absent bite of his pie. 'These last few days were horrendous without you. Inspector Clyde and his force weren't accepting of my presence and threw the usual jibes at me. I found them harder to deflect when you weren't there. I felt I had to leave, John. That moment in the living room was the best and worst moment of my life. All at once I had all I ever wanted, but it was wrong. You were angry, and drunk. I hoped you would remember, but you didn't. It hurt me. I wanted to talk, but you didn't. I began to realise that you would be happier without me, however knowing I was still alive this time. I thought I would give you a chance to move on, to marry and have children. I can be selfless for you.'

John's eyes finally give up their battle and the tears spill onto his cheeks. It's lucky they're in an isolated corner, he thinks vaguely. He clutches Sherlock's hand tighter.

'We belong together, Sherlock,' he says. 'We always have done. I need your passion in my life. I need the excitement, the danger, the thrill. I need you.'

'What does this make us?' Sherlock asks tentatively.

John shrugs. 'Do we need a label? Why can't we just be us? Or, if we have to say something, I think partner works. Or other half?' He smiles at Sherlock and leans over to press a quick kiss onto that cubid's bow. 'Since that's what you clearly are. The other half to me.'

'I can live with that,' Sherlock agrees, his pale cheeks flushing. 'I do have to warn you that I may be difficult. I don't understand relationships, or the requirements of them.'

'It's a learning curve,' John responds, smiling. 'And since when do you have to warn me you're going to be difficult?'

'Touché,' Sherlock replies, taking another bite of his pie.


	11. Secrets Uncovered

They get back to the hotel at around eleven o'clock. Walking into the living-room, John stops dead.

'What's this?'

Sherlock stops alongside him. 'I rang the hotel about half an hour ago to see if they could arrange this for us. I thought it would be a nice gesture.'

John stares at the champagne and strawberries set out for them on the low coffee table.

'It's amazing, Sherlock.' He stretches up and kisses the detective softly. 'Thank you.' They cuddle up on the sofa and John pours them champagne. 'Since when did you get romantic?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I looked up _romantic gestures_ on google and this seemed to be one of the most popular.'

'Well, it's very much appreciated. I love it.' John turns to Sherlock and is distracted by the sight of a plump strawberry disappearing between the detective's full lips. John swallows audibly, suddenly distracted by thoughts of what else could disappear into Sherlock's sinfully delicious mouth.

'Ah. You desire oral sex,' Sherlock announces, swallowing the strawberry and abruptly dropping to his knees in front of John, still seated on the sofa.

'Wait... what?' John manages as Sherlock unzips his trousers.

'Do you not want this?' Sherlock queries as he gazes up at the doctor. John searches his face for any sign of hesitance or nervousness, and finds none. Surrendering he raises his hands.

'I do,' he murmurs. Sherlock pops the button on his trousers and John lifts his hips in order to allow Sherlock to pull them down, along with his boxers. He has to stifle a moan as he feels the warmth of Sherlock's mouth descend on him. The detective is clumsy and inexperienced but he makes up for that in pure enthusiasm. John chances a look down and almost comes on the spot from the sight of those obscene lips moving up and down his shaft, those jet-black curls bobbing. Sherlock Holmes is giving him a blow-job. _Sherlock Holmes is giving him a blow-job_. How did he get this lucky?

He feels himself nearing the edge and pulls Sherlock upwards onto the sofa with him.

'Together,' he murmurs, cautiously reaching down to unzip Sherlock's trousers. He waits for any sign of hesitance, but there isn't any. He pushes Sherlock's trousers and boxers down so that they are moving together with no material between them. It elicits a gasp from Sherlock as he throws his head back, the muscles cording in that beautiful pale neck.

'_John_,' he groans, thrusting his hips into John who responds in the same way as he mouths kisses along Sherlock's throat. Did John ever seriously believe Sherlock was asexual? How wrong he was. The detective is sex personified as he ruts into John, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed and his curls falling over his face.

'I'm going to come,' Sherlock mutters brokenly, his face now flushed crimson. 'I can't... _John!_' John feels the tell-tale wetness spread over his hip as Sherlock releases. The detective collapses bonelessly on top of him and he continues working himself until he orgasms too with a muted cry.

For a few minutes they lie together in a sated state of bliss until Sherlock pushes himself off John.

'I'm sorry, John,' Sherlock mutters. John heaves himself up into a sitting position and stares at him.

'What on earth for?'

'For finishing that... quickly. It can't have been satisfying for you.'

'You have never been more beautiful to me,' John replies honestly. Seeing Sherlock's eyes blow with orgasm, seeing his body shudder and shake... 'And it was more than satisfying for me.' He moves closer to the detective and wraps an arm around him. 'Listen, we're both new at this. I've never been with a man and you've never been with anybody. It'll take time for us to learn each other's bodies. That's part of the fun. It's all about experimentation.' Sherlock's eyes light up at this and John laughs. 'Yeah, I thought you'd like that. But seriously, that's all it is. Trial and error. And being with you, just like this, is perfect for me.'

'I suppose we should go to bed,' Sherlock murmurs. 'I imagine I'm going to need rest for whatever you have planned for tomorrow.'

John gets up and grabs the champagne bottle before heading into the bedroom.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Is this really necessary, John?' Sherlock whines as they exit the café they've just had lunch in. 'We don't even have the required swimwear. And surely my injuries prevent me from entering a public pool.'

'We buy some trunks,' John responds evenly. 'We already have towels from the hotel. And your _injuries_ are no more than a six centimetre scratch on your side and a graze on your knuckles, both of which can be covered by a couple of large plasters.' He is resolved in his own mind. He is not leaving Bath without paying a visit to the Thermal Spa. He drags a still grumbling Sherlock into a sports shop to buy some swimming trunks. Sherlock scans the range available with a deeply disgusted look.

'Do people actually wear these things?' he remarks, holding up a virulent orange pair between his thumb and forefinger as though scared he'll catch some sort of disease.

'Yes, they do,' John replies, flicking through the sizes of some plain black ones. 'If you don't like these, you've always got Speedos.' He gestures at the skimpy garments hanging behind them and laughs as Sherlock blanches.

'On second thoughts I'm sure these will be adequate.'

'We'll get you a black pair and I'll go with navy. What size are you?' He casts an appraising, and appreciative, glance at Sherlock's hips. 'Thirty-four?'

Sherlock shrugs as if the question of whether the trunks will fit him or not is of the utmost unimportance.

'Fine, I'll just get you these.' John pays for the trunks and hurries Sherlock out of the shop before he can start deducing the hapless assistants or the other customers.

Two hours later and they are relaxing in the naturally heated waters of the roof-top pool. Bath's skyline stretches in all directions and steam rises lazily from the surface, dissipating slowly in the air. John is enjoying himself immensely because as well as the beautiful view of the city he also has the sight of Sherlock in a pair of clinging dark swim trunks to content himself with. The detective is currently occupying himself with sniffing at the water which is rich in mineral content.

'I'm bored, John,' Sherlock announces after awhile, splashing his way over to where John is reclining. 'There's nothing to do. I've already determined at least seven different minerals present in this pool.'

'Excellent,' John murmurs, allowing his eyes to flutter shut. 'Why don't you carry on doing that for awhile? Try and find seven more.'

'I'm not a child, John,' Sherlock whines, sounding petulant. John cracks a smile.

'You sound like one right now.'

There's the sound of slowly moving water and then suddenly John feels a warm weight settle against his chest. At the same time Sherlock's legs straddle either side of his thighs so that the other man is virtually sitting in his lap. The detective's warm breath is blowing on the side of his neck as Sherlock leans in to whisper in his ear.

'Do I _feel_ like one?'

'No,' John murmurs, that shivery feeling suddenly present once again in his stomach. He winds his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls him closer. 'We're in a public place, Sherlock. We have to be respectful.'

'Respectful's boring,' Sherlock mutters sulkily, nipping lightly at John's earlobe. John groans slightly, knowing he should push Sherlock away but he cannot bring himself to do it. He feels Sherlock shift slightly and then Sherlock's lips are on his, teasing and and cajoling. John responds, opening his mouth, allowing his tongue to swipe around Sherlock's teeth and then probe deeper. The detective moans low in his throat and arches back slightly. John takes advantage of his momentary distraction to break the kiss.

'I am _not_ going to get arrested for public indecency,' he pants, 'it's enough having an ASBO, thank you.'

'Oh come on, you know that got revoked,' Sherlock murmurs enticingly. 'And besides, how can you possibly be arrested for public indecency when you've still got your genitalia covered?' As if to prove his point his hand snakes down between their chests and brushes against John's now hardening cock, over the fabric of his trunks.

'Jesus,' John curses, not able to help himself bucking into Sherlock. Anxiously he scans the pool. They're lucky in that it's virtually deserted. An elderly gentleman seems to be dozing on one of the recliners and the young couple at the opposite end are seemingly much too engrossed in each other to pay any attention to them. Nevertheless, if John doesn't stop it now he knows that he won't be _able_ to stop. And he has a feeling that ejaculating in a public pool is something very much frowned upon.

'Stop, Sherlock,' he says in a wavering voice. 'Not here.'

To his credit the detective does back off slightly, his pupils still slightly blown with lust. 'But it's so boring,' he whines. John sighs deeply, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He _has_ been to the Spa at least, even if it wasn't quite the relaxing experience he'd hoped for. And if he's honest with himself would he have enjoyed it if Sherlock had been quiet and placid? A small smirk makes its way onto his lips and he stands up, the water lapping at his waist.

'Come on then, let's head back to the hotel. I think I've had enough of Bath anyway. Shall we get the train to London tomorrow?'

A blinding smile lights Sherlock's face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back in the flat, John has to stifle a laugh as Sherlock rushes around touching almost everything, his violin case, his books on the bookshelf, the various experiments scattered over surfaces. It's like watching an animal mark its territory, he thinks fondly.

Of course Sherlock notices his amusement and stops instantly, fidgeting slightly in the centre of the living room.

'I didn't think I'd ever be coming back,' he murmurs quietly, his gaze drifting to stare around the flat. John takes a step forwards and opens his arms.

'Come on,' he says, gesturing the detective towards him. Sherlock shifts and rolls his eyes but eventually takes a few steps and then he is in John's arms. Immediately John winds his arms around Sherlock's waist and he feels the detective tentatively hug him back. They stay frozen in that position for a few seconds, John just enjoying the contact.

'No more secrets,' he murmurs. 'No more hiding. Just us. A new start.'

Sherlock pulls away and looks at him, his eyes intense. 'A new start. And, I have something to tell you.'

'Oh God, what is it?' John says, instantly worried.

'I've decided to take Lestrade up on his offer.'

'What?'

'Honestly John, do try to keep up won't you? It's not that taxing an idea. I am going to accept Lestrade's offer of a job on Scotland Yard's official payroll.'

John blinks, his mouth slightly agape. 'But what about all that stuff about _I can't be tied down, nobody can control me, I do what I want_?'

Sherlock glares at him. 'Firstly, I do not sound like that, you are shockingly awful at mimicry and secondly...' he shrugs. 'It's either this or accept the fact that I will never be able to assist on cases again without moving out of London.'

'Well, that sounds amazing Sherlock.' He smiles but his head is reeling. If Sherlock joins Scotland Yard, what is going to happen to him? He remembers how much he'd loved assisting the detective on cases. Occasionally he had felt like a little bit of a hanger-on but most of the time it had been absolutely brilliant. It made an astonishing contrast to his old job at the surgery where many of the incidents he saw were dull and predictable. He laughs to himself. _God, I'm even thinking like him now_.

'Of course, I am only offering my services under a few provisos,' Sherlock continues, either not noticing or ignoring John's inner turmoil. 'First, that I retain my title of Consulting Detective. Second, that I have the right to refuse a case anytime I wish. Third, that if I am called in, my instructions must be listened to and acted upon.' John nods, forcing another smile to his lips.

'That sounds brilliant. I'm sure they'll agree to that, no problem. After all, they've only got to look at the figures to see how much you helped.'

'I hadn't finished,' Sherlock says, eyeing John closely.

'Ah, sorry. Fire away.' John ambles into the kitchen to flick the kettle on, Sherlock trailing after him.

'Fourth, and this is utterly non-negotiable, that my partner is to be given a position on the official payroll as well.'

'Your partner?' John asks stupidly, pausing in the middle of getting mugs from the cupboard.

'Yes, John. I shan't work with Anderson and I need somebody I can rely on.' Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. 'You gave up your job at the surgery because of me. Because of what I did to you. I know how much you miss having that sense of purpose, I can see it. And...' he pauses, as if struggling with words. John watches, eyes wide. Sherlock is _never_ lost for something to say. 'You make it better when you're there, John. You inspire me to do more, be better. You're the only one whose opinion really _matters_.'

John gapes at him and he cannot stop the momentary joy that flares through him at the prospect. Then his shoulders slump.

'They'll never let me tag along after you. I mean, you've proven your worth. But doctors are a dime a dozen.'

'Not you,' Sherlock says fiercely, taking a step towards John. The kettle clicks off and it goes completely unnoticed. 'If I am going to help, you have to be there. You're unique John. You are so much more than you give yourself credit for. I have met many people in my life and not one of them has been half as fascinating as you.' John doesn't know quite what to say to this, his throat seems to have closed up and he has to swallow convulsively to clear the blockage. 'I'll ring Lestrade now,' Sherlock announces, already with his phone in hand. He whirls out of the room and John shakily fills the mugs for tea. Once his is done he relaxes in his chair, waiting for Sherlock to tell him the outcome of the call.

Soon enough the detective is back, his silvery eyes glowing, his curls standing on end.

'Welcome to Scotland Yard, Consulting Physician.' John stares at him.

'You mean it? You're not just kidding me?'

'John. I never kid.' Sherlock suddenly looks a little anxious, his brow furrowing. 'Are you not happy? I'm sorry, I didn't even think to ask if...'

'God, Sherlock no!' John cries, forcing his limbs into action so he can get up from the chair and move over to Sherlock. 'That's not it at all! I'm over the moon, honestly. I just... I never thought...' he trails off and knuckles a hand into his eyes.

'John? What's wrong? What's happening?' Sherlock's fearful and confused tone makes John smile slightly sadly.

'I just never thought that I'd ever have this much luck. To have you, back here and alive would be enough. But to have you with _me_, as we are now, as my other half, and then to be _paid_ for running around with you on crimescenes, it just – it all got a bit much.' He falls silent and then mutters: 'I keep thinking that I'm going to wake up one day and you won't be there. You'll be dead, and this is all just some amazingly lovely yet cruel dream.'

There is silence for a few seconds. Sherlock, unusually, seems to be struggling to find something to say and John's gaze is fixed on the carpet.

'What can I say to convince you that I'm back for good?' Sherlock asks softly, not moving from his position across from John. The doctor shrugs slowly.

'I don't think there's anything you _can_ say.'

'Right.' Abruptly Sherlock turns away and paces towards the window. John sighs and crosses the room. As he reaches the detective he doesn't touch him, merely stands by his side.

'It's not in what you say, anyway. Just be here, with me, and soon you leaving will seem like a nightmare.'

Sherlock twists his head to stare down at John, who meets his gaze full on. 'I never wanted to leave you alone. But remember that I was alone too. The things I had to do to keep you safe will stay with me for a long time.'

John grasps his wrist and tows him to the sofa, then sits them both down. His tone is serious when he next speaks.

'You never told me exactly what you did.'

'Because it doesn't matter anymore,' Sherlock responds irritably. 'Honestly, John, let's not...'

'I know you don't want to talk about this. But I think we need to. I've told you everything, the darkest moments I had while you were gone. I think you need to do the same. Otherwise it's always going to be between us.'

'You won't, tell anyone?' Sherlock's words are hesitant and nervous. John clasps his hand tightly.

'It's between you and me. I promise.'

'It started in Prague. There was an organisation simply called Webbers Inc. Outwardly they seemed to specialise in stationary but I knew it went far deeper than that. The chairman was a gentleman named Spencer Graff. Mycroft did some digging and found out that he worked for Moriarty a long time ago in Ireland. I destroyed the entire warehouse. Blew it up with all the workers inside. Of course they all belonged to the criminal organisation, I made sure of that, but still... their screams. Graff managed to make it out, he fell from a second storey window, his clothes on fire. I can still smell the burning flesh. By the time he hit the floor he was a wreck, barely alive. I shot him in the head.'

Sherlock talks for a long time. Through it all John holds his hand, never interrupting, never expressing the emotions clamouring inside his mind.

'It ended in Paris,' Sherlock finishes. His expression is tormented, his eyes dull and his skin pale. 'I finally caught up to Moran.' He turns to John. 'I needed to make him suffer. He was the last piece and the second-in-command to Moriarty. I was robbed of the chance to make Moriarty understand what he'd done. Threatening you, in any way, was unforgivable. So I punished Moran instead. I drew his fingernails out one by one. I broke both his kneecaps and blinded him. Then, when he was writhing in agony, I shot him.' Slowly he withdraws his hand from John's and turns his head away.

'Sherlock...' John begins, but he cannot finish the sentence. He hasn't even thought his words through. How can he express the thoughts racing through his mind? The doctor part of his psyche is rebelling at the suffering these individuals were put through at the hands of his partner. From the way Sherlock tells it (blunt and honest) they must have been in tremendous pain before they died.

The other part of him is proud. Sherlock managed to take down a criminal network which had existed for years and years, across at least three continents, in the space of three years. All on his own, by the sounds of it. Mycroft helped, apparently, but it was Sherlock who was the sole field agent.

Altogether he feels unparalleled sorrow for the individual victims who perhaps didn't fully deserve to have their life taken away from them, but most of all for Sherlock. He feels guilty that Sherlock needed to take such drastic action to protect him, and yet he understands why he needed to. Had Moriarty's network been allowed to survive, in any form, they would never have been safe.

He is aware that Sherlock has turned and is staring at him but cannot respond. After a few seconds Sherlock gets up and is gone, through the door of the living-room in the direction of his bedroom. John remains frozen in his position on the sofa for awhile longer, attempting to calm his mind.

_Sherlock. Murder. Innocents. Moriarty. Sherlock. Network. Proud. Murder. Brave. Me. Sherlock. _

The grief hits him anew. Sherlock had been suffering so much over those years, fully as much as John. Hadn't John said something along the lines of _"While you were off, swanning around..._"? Of course, he didn't know any different at the time, but the disparity between what he imagined and the reality is jarring. He cannot imagine what Sherlock must have gone through. Thinking back, the detective had tried to tell him a few times but he'd studiously ignored him. All that darkness, all that pain. Whatever people (and he is thinking mainly of Anderson and Donovan here) believe of Sherlock, the man is not a cold-blooded killer. He has feelings, and emotions. He _can_ empathise. But due to perhaps an unstable childhood accompanied by his superior intellect and, John isn't afraid to hypothesise, bullying, he has grown to suppress everything apart from his mind. John is the one who brought everything back to him.

It is only now that John realises he is crying, the tears are dripping down his chin and onto his jumper. Slowly he gets to his feet and makes his way to Sherlock's bedroom. Softly he raps on the wood of the door. Getting no reply he twists the handle and enters. At first he sees no sign of the detective. Then, upon closer inspection, he notices the bundle of dark curls just visible above the other side of the bed.

'Sherlock? Can I join you?' he asks quietly.

'If you must,' is the reply. John is taken aback at his tone; cold and unfeeling. He swallows and makes his way around the side of the bed so he can sit down next to the detective. Sherlock is staring straight ahead at the wall opposite and his cheeks are pale yet dry. He glances at John and a bitter smile curves his lips.

'I've disgusted you.'

'No,' John replies honestly. 'I'm just sorry.'

'For all those people I murdered in cold-blood.'

'Yes,' John says. 'But...'

'Are you going to leave me?'

'Sherlock...'

'I don't care either way,' Sherlock carries on, his tone mechanical. 'You can leave or stay, it makes no difference to me.'

'Sherlock...'

'Of course, if you stay you're going to have to get used to the fact that you're living with a cruel, ruthless killer...'

'_Sherlock!_ Just shut up, will you?' The detective blinks and continues staring blankly at the wall. John sighs deeply.

'I'm not leaving you, and I'm not disgusted.'

'No, you're just sorry for all those I murdered.'

'As I said, yes,' John responds with a long-suffering sigh. 'But you didn't let me finish. Before you went on your little rant, I was about to say that I also feel incredibly sorry for you. For what it did to you, and why it was necessary. I understand, Sherlock. And I'm not the paragon of all the virtues you seem to think I am. Are you forgetting that I shot a man dead hours after we first met just because he threatened you?'

'He wasn't a very nice man, though, you said it yourself,' Sherlock says quietly.

'And I'm guessing that the people you killed weren't exactly angels. Sherlock, I don't like what you did. I don't like the fact that so many people died. But if anyone's to blame in this whole situation, it's Moriarty, for putting you and me in that sort of situation.'

'Moriarty's dead, John. So who takes the blame?'

'_Nobody_!' John shouts, frustrated. 'Nobody has to take the blame! The situation was seriously fucked up and we all did the best we could with it. What's done is done, and it's in the past. I am _not _going to let Moriarty influence our lives even from beyond the grave. I've gone through too much and gained too much to let that happen.'

'What exactly have you gained, John?'

'You, you absolute prat. Jesus, Sherlock, open your eyes! Why can't you see how much I love you?'

The second the words are out of his mouth, John freezes. So much for waiting for the opportune moment to drop that bombshell on Sherlock. Nervously he drums his fingers against the wood of the floorboards while he waits for the detective to assimilate that particular bit of news. Sherlock doesn't react or say anything for a very long time. A muscle is twitching in his cheek, the only indication that he is deeply agitated.

'Love?' he says at last.

'Yes.'

'You love me?'

John swallows. 'Yes.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes.'

There is silence for another few seconds and then John sees the tears begin to spill down Sherlock's cheeks. Without thinking twice he reaches his arm out and draws Sherlock in towards his chest. The detective hides his face in the fabric of John's shirt and John can feel the material steadily turning damper.

'I don't understand,' Sherlock mutters eventually, his words muffled by John's shoulder. 'How can you say you love me after what I did?' John shrugs, a little confused himself. If it were anyone else, anbody at all, he is sure he would be absolutely disgusted. But somehow Sherlock Holmes has become the only person in his life for who he'd forgive everything. Apparently including torture and murder.

But then, can he say that he is any better? His body count may not be as impressive as Sherlock's but he has killed for the detective and did Sherlock really do any different? The number is greater but the reason is the same. He did it to protect John. John clutches Sherlock tighter and closes his eyes as he thinks about what he would have done in the same situation. It takes him less than three seconds. He would have done the same thing. In a heartbeat. He would have done, will do, anything to keep Sherlock safe and with him.

'I lost you once, I won't lose you again,' he mutters into Sherlock's curls, only aware afterwards that he has spoken aloud. Sherlock pulls away slightly and peers up at him, his tear-drenched eyes slightly confused.

'What?'

'Nothing, just talking to myself.'

Sherlock stares at him a second longer before apparently deciding not to push it, and settles himself back against John's chest.

'I just have one question, Sherlock, and I need you to be honest with me.'

'Of course, John,' Sherlock responds unhesitatingly, pulling away and twisting so that he is sitting facing John.

'The people you killed – were you absolutely certain when you did it that they all belonged to, or had involvement in, Moriarty's network?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replies instantly, his eyes open and honest. John blinks and then nods.

'Fine. Right, well. Shall I put the kettle on?'


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

'Sherlock!'

A tousled head appears from behind a stack of chemistry textbooks. 'Hmm?'

'You're not even dressed!'

Sherlock's expression morphs into one of confusion. 'What on earth are you talking about John? What do you call this?' He plucks at the fabric of his dressing-gown.

John, standing in the doorway to the living room, rolls his eyes. 'You deleted it, didn't you? Damn it, Sherlock, I _told_ you...'

'Now, wait just one second before you start hurling accusations about. What have I allegedly deleted?'

'The drinks tonight! With my old mates from the Unit? I told you _days_ ago.'

Sherlock frowns deeply for a moment or two and then looks guilty, well, as guilty as is possible for Sherlock Holmes.

'Oh, that. Yes, I think I did delete that,' he says sheepishly.

John throws his hands up in the air and Sherlock takes a brief moment to appreciate how the movement makes his shirt tighten over the muscles in his arms. 'Damn it, Sherlock, you know how important this is to me. I told you how nervous I am about it.'

'It'll be fine,' Sherlock says, getting up from behind the towering pile of books, 'I'll go and get dressed now. How long is this evening expected to last? I have a very important...'

'I don't know, Sherlock,' John bites out, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Before you get dressed, what d'you think of this shirt?'

Sherlock glances at it. 'Very nice. Better than the jumpers. Why?'

'You don't think I should wear something smarter? More fancy? How about my old dress uniform?'

Sherlock levels him with a pointed stare. 'John. You cannot turn up at the pub dressed in full regalia.' He walks across the room and wraps his arms around John's waist, nuzzling his nose into the soft skin at the juncture of John's neck and shoulder. 'Why are you making such a big deal out of this? Isn't it just some drinks down the pub? You do that with Lestrade all the time.' The soft tone turns slightly irritated. 'And I do mean _all_ the time.'

John twists in his grasp so he's facing Sherlock and allows himself to sink against the detective's chest. 'I don't know. It's just... this is the first time I've really been out with them properly since you fell. It's definitely the first time I've gone out with them and been dating a man not a woman. I guess I'm scared of how they'll react.'

'If they're your friends they'll be happy for you. If they're not and have issues with homosexuality then how much are you really losing?' John remains silent and Sherlock pulls back slightly so he can examine his face better. 'If...' he begins hesitantly, 'if... we can pretend to just be flatmates again, if you want. I don't mind.'

At this, John glances up. 'What? Oh God, no. No Sherlock. I've had enough secrets to last me a lifetime. And besides...' he looks up at his boyfriend, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, '... I'm looking forward to showing you off. But only if you're dressed. So go on, you've got five minutes.'

Sherlock grumbles as he stamps out of the room but in three minutes and thirty-four seconds by John's watch he reappears. 'Will this do?' he asks. John glances up and his mouth almost drops open.

Sherlock's wearing a leather jacket with a faded slogan t-shirt underneath, a pair of dark stone-washed denim jeans and a ratty pair of converses.

'What are you wearing?' John finally manages. Sherlock looks vaguely affronted.

'What's wrong with it?'

'Well it's, it's different. What happened to the suits?'

'I had to get used to dressing casually while I was away,' Sherlock replies. 'I thought a night at the pub with your Unit _mates_ would be the perfect time to... how do they say it?... dress down.'

'I'm not complaining,' John manages eventually, 'it's just that... Jesus, I look like a lumpy old man next to you. You look like you could've just stepped off the cover of GQ.'

'It's funny you should say that because I did get quite a few offers to model when I was younger. Of course I turned them all down. I imagine modelling's deadly boring.'

'Not helping, Sherlock,' John says through gritted teeth. Sherlock immediately shuts up and winds his arms around John.

'I don't think you've properly seen yourself recently,' Sherlock says gently, pressing a kiss onto the side of John's head.

'Eh? I do own a mirror, you know.'

'You know what I mean, don't be obtuse. We're both getting older, John, there's no denying that. So what if you have a few grey hairs creeping in? Soon I'll have them too. You might have to wear glasses, I might end up going bald. We'll put on weight and things will start to sag. That time hasn't arrived yet. Your eyes are clear, honest and beautiful. Your muscles are still a force to be reckoned with. You're compact, sturdy and ever so sexy. You tan easily, even a few hours in the sun will turn your skin golden and make your eyes stand out even more. But none of that matters. Even when you're old and look disgusting, it won't matter. Because I love you for who you are. Not what your transport may look like.'

John blinks up at him, slightly lost for words. He opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes out. Sherlock presses a kiss to his lips and then pulls back, studying him.

'Better?'

Dumbly John nods.

'Good. Then we won't have to keep standing here wasting more time. If we're going to have to endure this undoubtedly tedious evening let's get going. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.'

XXXXXXXXXX

John and Sherlock wend their way through the crowded pub, eventually reaching the section at the back which John's friends have comandeered for their own. As they approach there is a raucous cheer and John turns to grin nervously at Sherlock.

'Here we go.'

In response, Sherlock flashes him a quick, reassuring smile.

'Johnny!'

A thickset man comes up to them, pulling John into a one-armed hug and clapping him on the back.

'Hey Ollie. You alright?'

'Yeah, yeah. Hey, Johnny it's been way too long. And you brought Sherlock!'

John smiles. 'Yes, I did. I figured he'd been hidden away for long enough.' John raises his voice to carry to all his friends, most of whom are still sat down. 'Everyone, this is Sherlock Holmes.'

There's a chorus of welcome and then Ollie tugs them down to sit at a central table.

'So tell us, Johnny, what's new?'

'We haven't seen you for ages,' someone else chips in.

Sherlock glances at John, who is looking distinctly nervous. Sherlock doubts anybody else would be able to pick on the subtle signs, but he can see them all. A slight tightening of John's jawline, his fingers clenching slightly on the side of the table.

'Well, I'm seeing someone new,' he begins, squeezing Sherlock's thigh slightly under the table.

'You broke up with that bird? What was her name? Jeanette?'

'Yeah,' John says heavily. 'Yeah, that's over. The thing is, I'm dating someone and it might come as a bit of a surprise. I know it did to me.'

'Who is it?' Ollie asks. 'Do we know her?'

'You know him, Ollie. I'm going out with Sherlock.'

There's a dead silence around the table before the majority of John's friends burst out laughing.

'Yeah right!'

'Good one, Johnny.'

'Seriously, who is it?'

John frowns and takes a deep pull of his drink. He glances at Sherlock who is looking supremely unconcerned.

'I'm not joking. I'm going out with Sherlock. Ever since he came back we've grown a lot closer.' John's eyes flash as he looks around the tables. 'For any of you who can't handle that, I suggest you leave now.'

There's another long silence. Then one man gets up, defiantly. He meets John's eyes and sneers openly.

'Never had you down as a cock-muncher, Johnny.' With that he leaves, shouldering his way through the crowd. A couple of seconds later three more men leave, although looking slightly embarrassed as they do so. They can't meet John's eyes and somehow this hurts him more than Paul's exit.

These are men he's served with, men he has trusted with his life, men he has stitched up on occasion when necessary. And they're willing to just abandon him because of who he chooses to spend his life with?

Ollie, on the other hand, is looking thrilled.

'You're looking very happy, Ollie,' John ventures, clutching onto Sherlock's hand for support. He feels long, thin fingers twine around his own and immediately feels more able to cope.

'Sure I'm happy. You're happy, that's enough for me. I always knew Sherlock was someone special to you. I'm not much of a reader but I always read your blog. I loved all your adventures and shit. And to be honest it doesn't take a genius to read between the lines.' He smirks. 'You've had it bad for a long time, mate.'

'I wish I'd realised it when everybody else did,' John says wryly.

XXXXXXXXXX

'See, it wasn't that bad, was it?' John asks as they enter the living room. Sherlock glowers at him and immediately stalks over to his abandoned experiment.

'If by not bad you mean that you managed to elimate those of your friends who can't accept homosexuality, then yes.'

John rolls his eyes and puts the kettle on. 'You liked Ollie. I know you did.'

'He was marginally less dull than the others,' Sherlock admits. John laughs and wanders over to where Sherlock is sitting. He wraps his arms around his waist and bends down so that he's able to press light kisses to Sherlock's throat who automatically tips his head in order to give him better access.

'There was a reason I said we'd leave early,' John murmurs, his fingertips stroking small circles on Sherlock's hip bones. Involuntarily Sherlock shifts himself on the chair, moving into John's teasing movements.

'What was that, then?' Sherlock manages.

'You're the genius in the room,' John breathes, moving his fingertips lower. 'Deduce.'

Sherlock lets out a little gasp as John's teasing hands skate over his groin.

'You require sex,' Sherlock says, tilting his hips further forward so that he's in danger of sliding off the chair.

'Good deduction,' John replies, massaging Sherlock's crotch, feeling the ridge of flesh harden under the denim of his jeans.

Almost immediately Sherlock decides that his experiment really isn't that pressing and can wait until the morning. What can't wait, however, is the desire to submit to John fully. Within minutes both men find themselves in the bedroom and Sherlock has divested himself of all of his clothes so that he ends up nude, sprawled on the double bed. John stands in the doorway, slowly stripping, all the while watching Sherlock.

'I love you,' John murmurs, stepping forwards, fully naked now. Sherlock sighs and lets his head fall back onto the duvet.

'I know. Just get on with it, will you?' As if to reinforce his point he tugs himself a few times. John climbs onto the bed and swats his hand away.

'Uh-uh. I'm not going any further until I hear it from you.'

'Hear what?' Sherlock demands, playing dumb.

John merely cocks an eyebrow at him and leisurely runs a hand up and down Sherlock's torso, feeling the outline of ribs and hip-bones.

'Fine. John Watson I love you. I love you more than my family, more than my violin, more than London, more than the Work. Now will you hurry up and fuck me?'

John smiles, attempting to hide how touched he is by Sherlock's words.

'Fine.'

And he proceeds to do exactly as Sherlock requests... as he always will.

**I considered the last chapter of this fic as the end, but then decided that an epilogue might be nice to wrap everything up. **

**I am very sorry about the sporadic updates for this fic but I have decided from now on not to upload any story until I've completed all of it. Thanks to everyone who's stayed with this story. I've now almost completed a **_**Beauty and the Beast**_** themed Sherlock story that I hope you'll all have a look at. The first chapter should be uploaded in a day or two.**

**Much love and thanks**

**Electrogirl**


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